Great 
Possessions 


DAVID  GRATSON 


s** 

4  ;r\ 

/•   lit    V 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS 


OF 


Books  by  the  Same  Author 


ADVENTURES  IN  CONTENTMENT 
ADVENTURES  IN  FRIENDSHIP 
THE  FRIENDLY  ROAD 
HEMPFIELD 


The  goodly  plain  things — the  smells,  sights,  sounds,  touches 
and  tastes  of  the  country 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS 


A  New  Series  of  Adventures 


By 
DAVID  GRAYSON 

Author  of  "Adventures  in  Contentment," 

"Adventures  in  Friendship,"  "The 

Friendly  Road,"  "Hempfield" 


Illustrated  by  Thomas  Fogarty 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1917,  BY  THB  PHILLIPS  PUBLISHING  COMPART 


"  Blessed  of  the  Lord  be  His  land, 
for  the  precious  things  of  heaven,  for 
the  dew,  and  for  the  deep  that  couch- 
eth  beneath, 

"And  for  the  precious  fruits 
brought  forth  by  the  sun,  and  for  the 
precious  things  put  forth  by  the 
moon, 

"And  for  the  chief  things  of  the  an 
cient  mountains,  and  for  the  precious 
things  of  the  lasting  hills, 

"And  for  the  precious  things  of  the 
earth  and  fullness  thereof,  and  for  the 
good  will  of  Him  that  dwelt  in  the 
bush." 


2129933 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 


CHAPTER 

I.  The  Well-Flavoured  Earth 

II.  Of  Good  and  Evil  Odours 

III.  Follow  Your  Nose!    .      . 

IV.  The  Green  People 
V.  Places  of  Retirement 

VI.  No  Trespass    .... 

VII.  Look  at  the  World!  .      . 

VIII.  A  Good  Apple      .     .     . 

IX.  I  Go  to  the  City  .     .     . 


FACE 

V 


3 

19 
26 

43 
59 
67 

83 

9i 
1 06 


Vll 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  «  FAOB 

X.  The  Old  Stone  Mason     .     .  .  122 

XL  An  Auction  of  Antiques      ,.  .  135 

XII.  A  Woman  of  Forty-five  .      .  .  155 

XIII.  His  Majesty— Bill  Richards  .  176 

XIV.  Life  in  the  Country  ....  192 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  goodly  plain  things, — the  smells, 
sights,  sounds,  touches  and  tastes  of 
the  country  .  .  .  Frontispiece  in  colour 


FACING  PAGE 


It  is  in  my  garden  that  all  things  become 
clearer  to  me 16 

He  never  interrupts  at  inconvenient  mo 
ments,  nor  intrudes  his  thoughts  upon 
yours  unless  you  desire  it  ....  64 

I  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  hill  to  look 
for  a  moment  across  the  beautiful 
wintry  earth 96 

I  love  this  corner  of  the  great  city;  I 
love  the  sense  of  the  warm  human  tide 
flowing  all  about  me 112 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING  PACK 


"What  am  I  offered  for  this  precious 
antique?  This  hand-made  spread?'*  144 

I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Dick  in  his  old 
smoking  jacket — smiling  across  at  me  160 

I  observed  he  had  no  difficulty  in  taking 
care  of  every  crumb  in  his  "  bucket." 
It  was  wonderful  to  see 184 

So  many  truths  spoken  by  the  Master 
Poet  come  to  us  exhaling  the  odours 
of  the  open  country 192 

CUTS    IN   TEXT 

PAGE 

And  as  I  sat  there  the  evening  fell,  a  star 
or  two  came  out  in  the  clear  blue  of 
the  sky 32 

For  friendly  confidences  give  me  an  apple 
tree  in  an  old  green  meadow  ...  48 

It  was  on  one  of  these  lawless  excursions 
in  Old  Howieson's  field  that  I  first 
saw  that  strange  old  fellow  ....  72 

All  the  others  meant  homes,  roof-trees, 
families,  or  else,  like  the  tower  of  the 
church,  they  pointed  heavenward  and 
were  built  to  the  glory  of  God  .  .  .  132 


INTRODUCTION 

I  OFFER  here  a  new  book  called  "Great 
Possessions,"  dealing  with  the  well-flavoured 
earth  and  with  well-flavoured  people. 

It  is  now  ten  years  since  the  first  of  these 
books,  "Adventures  in  Contentment/'  was 
published.  It  was  begun,  as  I  have  said  else 
where,  with  no  thought  of  publication  but  for 
my  own  enjoyment,  and  the  writings  since  that 
time,  for  the  most  part,  have  grown  out  of 
notes  set  down  in  little  books  wherever  I 
chanced  to  be  at  the  moment — on  the  roadside, 
in  the  woods,  or  at  home. 

I  have  tried  to  relate  in  a  form  some 
what  veiled  the  experiences  of  that  elusive, 
invisible  life  Lwhich  in  every  man  is  so  far 
more  real,  so  far  more  important,  than  his 
visible  activities — the  real  expression  of  a  life 
much  occupied  in  other  employment.  To  par 
aphrase  Ruskin,  these  are  the  pieces  of  time, 
knowledge,  or  sight  which  my  share  of  sun 
shine  and  earth  has  permitted  me  to  seize. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

"For  the  rest  I  ate  and  drank,  loved  and 
hated ;  my  life  was  as  the  vapour  and  is  not." 

The  response  has  been  beyond  my  expecta 
tions,  and  continues  a  surprising  thing  to  me. 
I  did  not  know  the  world  could  be  so  full  of 
friendly  people.  If  I  have  not  been  able  to 
answer,  as  they  deserved,  the  many  letters 
of  these  friends  whom  I  have  not  yet  seen,  but 
whom  I  have  felt,  it  is  not  for  lack  of  willing 
ness,  nor  for  want  of  thorough  appreciation,  but 
because  the  task  has  been  quite  beyond  me. 

Nor  can  I  allow  this  opportunity  to  pass, 
after  ten  years,  to  acknowledge  how  much  I 
owe  to  the  constant  encouragement  of  many 
friends.  What  could  I  have  done — to  mention 
only  one — without  the  advice  of  John  S. 
Phillips,  the  most  sympathetic  of  readers,  the 
most  stimulating  of  critics.  And  I  wonder 
sometimes  how  it  happened  that  Tom  Fogarty, 
of  all  the  artists  in  America,  should  have 
been  chosen  to  illustrate  these  writings, 
for  Tom  Fogarty  is  a  true  lover  of  the  earth, 
and  thinks  what  I  write  as  fast  as  ever  I  can 
write  it! 

THE  AUTHOR. 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH 

*' Sweet  as  Eden  is  the  air 

And  Eden-sweet  the  ray. 
No  Paradise  is  lost  for  them 
Who  foot  by  branching  root  and  stem, 
And  lightly  with  the  woodland  share 

The  change  of  night  and  day." 

TTMDR  these  many  years,  since  I  have  lived 
JL  here  in  the  country,  I  have  had  it  in  my 
mind  to  write  something  about  the  odour  and 
taste  of  this  well-flavoured  earth.  The  fact  is, 
both  the  sense  of  smell  and  the  sense  of  taste 
have  been  shabbily  treated  in  the  amiable 
rivalry  of  the  senses.  Sight  and  hearing  have 
been  the  swift  and  nimble  brothers,  and  sight 


4  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

especially,  the  tricky  Jacob  of  the  family,  is 
keen  upon  the  business  of  seizing  the  entire  in 
heritance,  while  smell,  like  hairy  Esau,  comes 
late  to  the  blessing,  hungry  from  the  hills,  and 
willing  to  trade  its  inheritance  for  a  mess  of 
pottage. 

I  have  always  had  a  kind  of  errant  love  for 
the  improvident  and  adventurous  Esaus  of  the 
Earth — I  think  they  smell  a  wilder  fragrance 
than  I  do,  and  taste  sweeter  things — and  I 
have  thought,  therefore,  of  beginning  a  kind  of 
fragrant  autobiography,  a  chronicle  of  all  the 
good  odours  and  flavours  that  ever  I  have  had 
in  my  life. 

As  I  grow  older,  a  curious  feeling  comes  often 
to  me  in  the  spring,  as  it  comes  this  spring  more 
poignantly  than  ever  before,  a  sense  of  the 
temporariness  of  all  things,  the  swiftness  of 
life,  the  sadness  of  a  beauty  that  vanishes  so 
soon,  and  I  long  to  lay  hold  upon  it  as  it  passes 
by  all  the  handles  that  I  can.  I  would  not  only 
see  it  and  hear  it,  but  I  would  smell  it  and 
taste  it  and  touch  it,  and  all  with  a  new  kind  of 
intensity  and  eagerness. 

Harriet  says  I  get  more  pleasure  out  of  the 
smell  of  my  supper  than  I  get  out  of  the  supper 
itself. 


THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH       5 

"I  never  need  to  ring  for  you,"  says  she, 
"but  only  open  the  kitchen  door.  In  a  few 
minutes  I'll  see  you  straighten  up,  lift  your 
head,  sniff  a  little,  and  come  straight  for  the 
house/' 

"The  odour  of  your  suppers,  Harriet,"  I 
said,  "after  a  day  in  the  fields,  would  lure  a 
man  out  of  purgatory." 

My  father  before  me  had  a  singularly  keen 
nose.  I  remember  well  when  I  was  a  boy  and 
drove  with  him  in  the  wild  North  Country, 
often  through  miles  of  unbroken  forest,  how  he 
would  sometimes  break  a  long  silence,  lift  his 
head  with  sudden  awareness,  and  say  to  me : 

"David,  I  smell  open  fields." 

In  a  few  minutes  we  were  sure  to  come  to  a 
settler's  cabin,  a  log  barn,  or  a  clearing. 
Among  the  free  odours  of  the  forest  he  had 
caught,  afar  off,  the  common  odours  of  the 
work  of  man. 

When  we  were  tramping  or  surveying  in  that 
country,  I  have  seen  him  stop  suddenly,  draw 
in  a  long  breath,  and  remark: 

"Marshes,"  or,  "A  stream  yonder." 

Part  of  this  strange  keenness  of  sense,  often 
noted  by  those  who  knew  that  sturdy  old 
cavalryman,  may  have  been  based,  as  so  many 


6  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

of  our  talents  are,  upon  a  defect.  My  father 
gave  all  the  sweet  sounds  of  the  world,  the 
voices  of  his  sons,  the  songs  of  his  daughters,  to 
help  free  the  Southern  slaves.  He  was  deaf. 

It  is  well  known  that  when  one  sense  is  de 
fective  the  others  fly  to  the  rescue,  and  my 
father's  singular  development  of  the  sense  of 
smell  may  have  been  due  in  part  to  this  defect, 
though  I  believe  it  to  have  been,  to  a  far 
larger  degree,  a  native  gift.  He  had  a  down 
right  good  nose.  All  his  life  long  he  enjoyed 
with  more  than  ordinary  keenness  the  odour 
of  flowers,  and  would  often  pick  a  sprig  of  wild 
rose  and  carry  it  along  with  him  in  his  hand, 
sniffing  at  it  from  time  to  time,  and  he  loved 
the  lilac,  as  I  do  after  him.  To  ill  odours  he 
was  not  less  sensitive,  and  was  impatient  of 
rats  in  the  barn,  and  could  smell  them, 
among  other  odours,  the  moment  the  door  was 
opened.  He  always  had  a  peculiar  sensitive 
ness  to  the  presence  of  animals,  as  of  dogs,  cats, 
muskrats,  cattle,  horses,  and  the  like,  and 
would  speak  of  them  long  before  he  had  seen 
them  or  could  know  that  they  were  about. 

I  recall  once  on  a  wild  Northern  lake,  when 
we  were  working  along  the  shore  in  a  boat,  how 
he  stopped  suddenly  and  exclaimed : 


THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH      7 

"David,  do  you  hear  anything?" —for  I,  a 
boy,  was  ears  for  him  in  those  wilderness 
places. 

"No,  Father.    What  is  it?" 

"Indians." 

And,  sure  enough,  in  a  short  time  I  heard  the 
barking  of  their  dogs  and  we  came  soon  upon 
their  camp,  where,  I  remember,  they  were  dry 
ing  deer  meat  upon  a  frame  of  poplar  poles 
over  an  open  fire.  He  told  me  that  the  smoky 
smell  of  the  Indians,  tanned  buckskin,  parched 
wild  rice,  and  the  like,  were  odours  that  carried 
far  and  could  not  be  mistaken. 

My  father  had  a  big,  hooked  nose  with  long, 
narrow  nostrils.  I  suppose  that  this  has  really 
nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  although  I  have 
come,  after  these  many  years,  to  look  with  a 
curious  interest  upon  people's  noses,  since  I 
know  what  a  vehicle  of  delight  they  often  are. 
My  own  nose  is  nothing  to  speak  of,  good 
enough  as  noses  go — but  I  think  I  inherited 
from  my  father  something  of  the  power  of  en 
joyment  he  had  from  that  sense,  though  I  can 
never  hope  to  become  the  accomplished  smeller 
he  was. 

I  am  moved  to  begin  this  chronicle  because 
of  my  joy  this  morning  early — a  May  morning ! 


8  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

— just  after  sunrise,  when  the  shadows  lay  long 
and  blue  to  the  west  and  the  dew  was  still  on 
the  grass,  and  I  walked  in  the  pleasant  spaces 
of  my  garden.  It  was  so  still  ...  so  still 
.  .  .  that  birds  afar  off  could  be  heard  sing 
ing,  and  once  through  the  crystal  air  came  the 
voice  of  a  neighbour  calling  his  cows.  But  the 
sounds  and  the  silences,  the  fair  sights  of 
meadow  and  hill  I  soon  put  aside,  for  the  lilacs 
were  in  bloom  and  the  bush-honeysuckles  and 
the  strawberries.  Though  no  movement  of  the 
air  was  perceptible,  the  lilacs  well  knew  the 
way  of  the  wind,  for  if  I  stood  to  the  north  of 
them  the  odour  was  less  rich  and  free  than  to 
the  south,  and  I  thought  I  might  pose  as  a 
prophet  of  wind  and  weather  upon  the  basis  of 
this  easy  magic,  and  predict  that  the  breezes 
of  the  day  would  be  from  the  north — as,  in 
deed,  they  later  appeared  to  be. 

I  went  from  clump  to  clump  of  the  lilacs 
testing  and  comparing  them  with  great  joy 
and  satisfaction.  They  vary  noticeably  in 
odour;  the  white  varieties  being  the  most 
delicate,  while  those  tending  to  deep  purple  are 
the  richest.  Some  of  the  newer  double  varie 
ties  seem  less  fragrant — and  I  have  tested 
them  now  many  times — than  the  old-fashioned 


THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH       9 

single  varieties  which  are  nearer  the  native 
stock.  Here  I  fancy  our  smooth  Jacob  has 
been  at  work,  and  in  the  lucrative  process  of 
selection  for  the  eye  alone  the  cunning  horti 
culturist  has  cheated  us  of  our  rightful  heritage 
of  fragrance.  I  have  a  mind  some  time  to 
practise  the  art  of  burbankry  or  other  kind  of 
wizardy  upon  the  old  lilac  stock  and  select  for 
odour  alone,  securing  ravishing  original  varie 
ties — indeed,  whole  new  gamuts  of  fragrance. 

I  should  devise  the  most  animating  names 
for  my  creations,  such  as  the  Double  Delicious, 
the  Air  of  Arcady,  the  Sweet  Zephyr,  and 
others  even  more  inviting,  which  I  should  en 
joy  inventing.  Though  I  think  surely  I  could 
make  my  fortune  out  of  this  interesting  idea,  I 
present  it  freely  to  a  scent-hungry  world — here 
it  is,  gratis ! — for  I  have  my  time  so  fully  occu 
pied  during  all  of  this  and  my  next  two  or  three 
lives  that  I  cannot  attend  to  it. 

I  have  felt  the  same  defect  in  the  cultivated 
roses.  While  the  odours  are  rich,  often  of 
cloying  sweetness,  or  even,  as  in  certain  white 
roses,  having  a  languor  as  of  death,  they 
never  for  me  equal  the  fragrance  of  the  wild 
sweet  rose  that  grows  all  about  these  hills,  in 
old  tangled  fence  rows,  in  the  lee  of  meadow 


io  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

boulders,  or  by  some  unfrequented  roadside. 
No  other  odour  I  know  awakens  quite  such  a 
feeling — light  like  a  cloud,  suggesting  free  hills, 
open  country,  sunny  air;  and  none  surely 
has,  for  me,  such  an  after-call.  A  whiff  of  the 
wild  rose  will  bring  back  in  all  the  poignancy 
of  sad  happiness  a  train  of  ancient  memories — 
old  faces,  old  scenes,  old  loves — and  the  wild 
thoughts  I  had  when  a  boy.  The  first  week  of. 
the  wild-rose  blooming,  beginning  here  about 
the  twenty-fifth  of  June,  is  always  to  me  a 
memorable  time. 

I  was  a  long  time  learning  how  to  take  hold 
of  nature,  and  think  now  with  some  sadness  of 
all  the  life  I  lost  in  former  years.  The  impres 
sion  the  earth  gave  me  was  confused :  I  was  as 
one  only  half  awake.  A  fine  morning  made  me 
dumbly  glad,  a  cool  evening,  after  the  heat  of 
the  day,  and  the  work  of  it,  touched  my  spirit 
restfully;  but  I  could  have  explained  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other.  Gradually  as  I  looked 
about  me  I  began  to  ask  myself,  "Why  is  it 
that  the  sight  of  these  common  hills  and  fields 
gives  me  such  exquisite  delight  ?  And  if  it  is 
beauty,  why  is  it  beautiful  ?  And  if  I  am  so 
richly  rewarded  by  mere  glimpses,  can  I  not  in 
crease  my  pleasure  with  longer  looks  ?" 


THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH     11 

I  tried  longer  looks  both  at  nature  and  at 
the  friendly  human  creatures  all  about  me.  I 
stopped  often  in  the  garden  where  I  was  work 
ing,  or  loitered  a  moment  in  the  fields,  or  sat 
down  by  the  roadside,  and  thought  intently 
what  it  was  that  so  perfectly  and  wonderfully 
surrounded  me;  and  thus  I  came  to  have  some 
knowledge  of  the  Great  Secret.  It  was,  after  all, 
a  simple  matter,  as  such  matters  usually  are 
when  we  penetrate  them,  and  consisted  merely 
in  shutting  out  all  other  impressions,  feelings, 
thoughts,  and  concentrating  the  full  energy  of 
the  attention  upon  what  it  was  that  I  saw  or 
heard  at  that  instant. 

At  one  moment  I  would  let  in  all  the  sounds 
of  the  earth,  at  another  all  the  sights.  So  we 
practise  the  hand  at  one  time,  the  foot  at  an 
other,  or  learn  how  to  sit  or  to  walk,  and  so 
acquire  new  grace  for  the  whole  body.  Should 
we  do  less  in  acquiring  grace  for  the  spirit  ?  It 
will  astonish  one  who  has  not  tried  it  how  full 
the  world  is  of  sounds  commonly  unheard,  and 
of  sights  commonly  unseen,  but  in  their  na 
ture,  like  the  smallest  blossoms,  of  a  curious 
perfection  and  beauty. 

Out  of  this  practice  grew  presently,  and  as  it 
seems  to  me  instinctively,  for  I  cannot  now  re- 


12  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

member  the  exact  time  of  its  beginning,  a 
habit  of  repeating  under  my  breath,  or  even 
aloud,  and  in  a  kind  of  singsong  voice,  frag 
mentary  words  and  sentences  describing  what 
it  was  that  I  saw  or  felt  at  the  moment,  as,  for 
example : 

"The  pink  blossoms  of  the  wild  crab-apple 
trees  I  see  from  the  hill.  .  .  .  The  reedy 
song  of  the  wood  thrush  among  the  thickets 
of  the  wild  cherry.  .  .  .  The  scent  of 
peach  leaves,  the  odour  of  new-turned  soil  in 
the  black  fields.  .  .  .  The  red  of  the  maples 
in  the  marsh,  the  white  of  apple  trees  in  bloom. 
.  .  .  I  cannot  find  Him  out — nor  know 
why  I  am  here.  .  .  ." 

Some  form  of  expression,  however  crude, 
seemed  to  reenforce  and  intensify  the  gather 
ings  of  the  senses;  and  these  words,  afterward 
remembered,  or  even  written  down  in  the  little 
book  I  sometimes  carried  in  my  pocket, 
seemed  to  awaken  echoes,  however  faint,  of  the 
exaltation  of  that  moment  in  the  woods  or 
fields,  and  enabled  me  to  live  twice  where  form 
erly  I  had  been  able  to  live  but  once. 

It  was  by  this  simple  process  of  concentrat 
ing  upon  what  I  saw  or  heard  that  I  increased 
immeasurably  my  own  joy  of  my  garden  and 


THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH     13 

fields  and  the  hills  and  marshes  all  about.  A 
little  later,  for  I  was  a  slow  learner,  I  began  to 
practise  the  same  method  with  the  sense  of 
smell,  and  still  later  with  the  sense  of  taste.  I 
said  to  myself,  "I  will  no  longer  permit  the 
avid  and  eager  eye  to  steal  away  my  whole  at 
tention.  I  will  learn  to  enjoy  more  com 
pletely  all  the  varied  wonders  of  the  earth." 

So  I  tried  deliberately  shutting  the  doorways 
of  both  sight  and  hearing,  and  centring  the 
industry  of  my  spirit  upon  the  flavours  of  the 
earth.  I  tested  each  odour  narrowly,  com 
pared  it  well  with  remembered  odours,  and 
often  turned  the  impression  I  had  into  such 
poor  words  as  I  could  command. 

What  a  new  and  wonderful  world  opened  to 
me  then !  My  takings  of  nature  increased  ten 
fold,  a  hundredfold,  and  I  came  to  a  new 
acquaintance  with  my  own  garden,  my  own 
hills,  and  all  the  roads  and  fields  around  about 
— and  even  the  town  took  on  strange  new 
meanings  for  me.  I  cannot  explain  it  rightly, 
but  it  was  as  though  I  had  found  a  new  earth 
here  within  the  old  one,  but  more  spacious  and 
beautiful  than  any  I  had  known  before.  I  have 
thought,  often  and  often,  that  this  world  we 
live  in  so  dumbly,  so  carelessly,  would  be  more 


i4  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

glorious  than  the  tinsel  heaven  of  the  poets  if 
only  we  knew  how  to  lay  hold  upon  it,  if  only 
we  could  win  that  complete  command  of  our 
own  lives  which  is  the  end  of  our  being. 

At  first,  as  I  said,  I  stopped  my  work,  or 
loitered  as  I  walked,  in  order  to  see,  or  hear,  or 
smell — and  do  so  still,  for  I  have  entered  only 
the  antechamber  of  the  treasure-house;  but  as 
I  learned  better  the  modest  technic  of  these 
arts  I  found  that  the  practice  of  them  went 
well  with  the  common  tasks  of  the  garden  or 
farm,  especially  with  those  that  were  more  or 
less  monotonous,  like  cultivating  corn,  hoeing 
potatoes,  and  the  like. 

The  air  is  just  as  full  of  good  sights  and  good 
odours  for  the  worker  as  for  the  idler,  and  it 
depends  only  upon  the  awareness,  the  aliveness, 
of  our  own  spirits  whether  we  toil  like  dumb 
animals  or  bless  our  labouring  hours  with 
the  beauty  of  life.  Such  enjoyment  and  a 
growing  command  of  our  surroundings  are 
possible,  after  a  little  practice,  without  taking 
much  of  that  time  we  call  so  valuable  and 
waste  so  sinfully.  "I  haven't  time,"  says  the 
farmer,  the  banker,  the  professor,  with  a  kind 
of  disdain  for  the  spirit  of  life,  when,  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  he  has  all  the  time  there  is,  all  that 


THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH     15 

X 

anybody  has — to  wit,  this  moment,  this  great 
and  golden  moment ! — but  knows  not  how  to 
employ  it.  He  creeps  when  he  might  walk, 
walks  when  he  might  run,  runs  when  he  might 
fly — and  lives  like  a  woodchuck  in  the  dark 
body  of  himself. 

Why,  there  are  men  in  this  valley  who  scout 
the  idea  that  farming,  carpentry,  merchantry, 
are  anything  but  drudgery,  defend  all  the 
evils  known  to  humankind  with  the  argument 
that  "a  man  must  live,"  and  laugh  at  any  one 
who  sees  beauty  or  charm  in  being  here,  in 
working  with  the  hands,  or,  indeed,  in  just 
living !  While  they  think  of  themselves  cannily 
as  "practical"  men,  I  think  them  the  most  im 
practical  men  I  know,  for  in  a  world  full  of 
boundless  riches  they  remain  obstinately 
poor.  They  are  unwilling  to  invest  even  a  few 
of  their  dollars  unearned  in  the  real  wealth  of 
the  earth.  For  it  is  only  the  sense  of  the  spirit 
of  life,  whether  in  nature  or  in  other  human  be 
ings,  that  lifts  men  above  the  beasts  and 
curiously  leads  them  to  God,  who  is  the  spirit 
both  of  beauty  and  of  friendliness.  I  say 
truly,  having  now  reached  the  point  in  my  life 
where  it  seems  to  me  I  care  only  for  writing 
that  which  is  most  deeply  true  for  me,  that  I 


16  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

rarely  walk  in  my  garden  or  upon  the  hills  of  an 
evening  without  thinking  of  God.  It  is  in  my 
garden  that  all  things  become  clearer  to  me, 
even  that  miracle  whereby  one  who  has 
offended  may  still  see  God ;  and  this  I  think  a 
wonderful  thing.  In  my  garden  I  understand 
dimly  why  evil  is  in  the  world,  and  in  my  gar 
den  learn  how  transitory  it  is. 

Just  now  I  have  come  in  from  work,  and  will 
note  freshly  one  of  the  best  odours  I  have  had 
to-day.  As  I  was  working  in  the  corn,  a  lazy 
breeze  blew  across  the  meadows  from  the 
west,  and  after  loitering  a  moment  among  the 
blackberry  bushes  sought  me  out  where  I  was 
busiest.  Do  you  know  the  scent  of  the  black 
berry?  Almost  all  the  year  round  it  is  a 
treasure-house  of  odours,  even  when  the  leaves 
first  come  out ;  but  it  reaches  crescendo  in  blos 
som  time  when,  indeed,  I  like  it  least,  for 
being  too  strong.  It  has  a  curious  fragrance, 
once  well  called  by  a  poet  "the  hot  scent  of  the 
brier,"  and  aromatically  hot  it  is  and  sharp 
like  the  briers  themselves.  At  times  I  do  not 
like  it  at  all,  for  it  gives  me  a  kind  of  faintness, 
while  at  other  times,  as  to-day,  it  fills  me  with 
a  strange  sense  of  pleasure  as  though  it  were 
the  very  breath  of  the  spicy  earth.  It  is  also  a 


: 

'-  ^.//'T^  ,••*•': 'i.1  -1.-  '".'•     ----    x    ~  •>.    •••*••<    -j\'  ;  .      -.v 

• .v;        /   .  '  ! 


It  is  in  my  garden  that  all  things  become  clearer  to  me 


THE  WELL-FLAVOURED  EARTH     17 

rare  friend  of  the  sun,  for  the  hotter  and 
brighter  the  day,  the  hotter  and  sharper  the 
scent  of  the  brier. 

Many  of  the  commonest  and  least  noticed  of 
plants,  flowers,  trees,  possess  a  truly  fragrant 
personality  if  once  we  begin  to  know  them.  I 
had  an  adventure  in  my  own  orchard,  only  this 
spring,  and  made  a  fine  new  acquaintance  in  a 
quarter  least  of  all  expected.  I  had  started 
down  the  lane  through  the  garden  one  morning 
in  the  most  ordinary  way,  with  no  thought  of 
any  special  experience,  when  I  suddenly  caught 
a  whiff  of  pure  delight  that  stopped  me  short. 

"What  now  can  that  be?"  and  I  thought  to 
myself  that  nature  had  played  some  new 
prank  on  me. 

I  turned  into  the  orchard,  following  my  nose. 
It  was  not  the  peach  buds,  nor  the  plums,  nor 
the  cherries,  nor  yet  the  beautiful  new  coloured 
leaves  of  the  grape,  nor  anything  I  could  see 
along  the  grassy  margin  of  the  pasture.  There 
were  other  odours  all  about,  old  friends  of 
mine,  but  this  was  some  shy  and  pleasing 
stranger  come  venturing  upon  my  land. 

A  moment  later  I  discovered  a  patch  of  low 
green  verdure  upon  the  ground,  and  dismissed 
it  scornfully  as  one  of  my  ancient  enemies. 


1 8  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

But  it  is  this  way  with  enemies,  once  we  come 
to  know  them,  they  often  turn  out  to  have  a 
fragrance  that  is  kindly. 

Well,  this  particular  fierce  enemy  was  a 
patch  of  chickweed.  Chickweed !  Invader  of 
the  garden,  cossack  of  the  orchard!  I  dis 
covered,  however,  that  it  was  in  full  bloom  and 
covered  with  small,  star-like  white  blossoms. 

"Well,  now,"  said  I,  "are  you  the  guilty 
rascal?" 

So  I  knelt  there  and  took  my  delight  of  it — 
and  a  rare,  delicate  good  odour  it  was.  For 
several  days  afterward  I  would  not  dig  out  the 
patch,  for  I  said  to  myself,  "What  a  cheerful 
claim  it  makes  these  early  days,  when  most  of 
the  earth  is  still  cold  and  dead,  for  a  bit  of 
immortality." 

*/The  bees  knew  the  secret  already^  and  the 
hens  and  the  blackbirds !  And  I  thought  it  no 
loss,  but  really  a  new  and  valuable  pleasure,  to 
divert  my  path  down  the  lane  for  several  days 
that  I  might  enjoy  more  fully  this  new  odour, 
and  make  a  clear  acquaintance  with  something 
fine  upon  the  earth  I  had  not  known  before. 


CHAPTER  II 

OF  GOOD  AND  EVIL  ODOURS 

OF  ALL  times  of  the  day  for  good  odours  I 
think  the  early  morning  the  very  best,  al 
though  the  evening  just  after  sunset,  if  the  air 
falls  still  and  cool,  is  often  as  good.  Certain 
qualities  or  states  of  the  atmosphere  seem  to 
favour  the  distillation  of  good  odours  and  I 
have  known  times  even  at  midday  when  the 
earth  was  very  wonderful  to  smell.  There  is  a 
curious,  fainting  fragrance  that  comes  only 
with  sunshine  and  still  heat.  Not  long  ago  I 
was  cutting  away  a  thicket  of  wild  spiraea 
which  was  crowding  in  upon  the  cultivated 

19 


20  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

land.  It  was  a  hot  day  and  the  leaves  wilted 
quickly,  giving  off  such  a  penetrating,  fainting 
fragrance  that  I  let  the  branches  lie  where  they 
fell  the  afternoon  through  and  came  often  back 
to  smell  of  them,  for  it  was  a  fine  thing  thus  to 
discover  an  odour  wholly  new  to  me. 

I  like  also  the  first  wild,  sweet  smell  of  new- 
cut  meadow  grass,  not  the  familiar  odour  of 
new-mown  hay,  which  comes  a  little  later,  and 
is  worthy  of  its  good  report,  but  the  brief, 
despairing  odour  of  grass  just  cut  down,  its 
juices  freshly  exposed  to  the  sun.  One  has  it 
richly  in  the  fields  at  the  mowing.  I  like 
also  the  midday  smell  of  peach  leaves  and 
peach-tree  bark  at  the  summer  pruning:  and 
have  never  let  any  one  else  cut  out  the  old 
canes  from  the  blackberry  rows  in  my  garden 
for  the  goodness  of  the  scents  which  wait  upon 
that  work. 

Another  odour  I  have  found  animating  is  the 
odour  of  burning  wastage  in  new  clearings  or  in 
old  fields,  especially  in  the  evening  when  the 
smoke  drifts  low  along  the  land  and  takes  to 
itself  by  some  strange  chemical  process  the 
tang  of  earthy  things.  It  is  a  true  saying  that 
nothing  will  so  bring  back  the  emotion  of  a 
past  time  as  a  remembered  odour.  I  have  had 


OF  GOOD  AND  EVIL  ODOURS       21 

from  a  whiff  of  fragrance  caught  in  a  city  street 
such  a  vivid  return  of  an  old  time  and  an  old, 
sad  scene  that  I  have  stopped,  trembling  there, 
with  an  emotion  long  spent  and  I  thought  for 
gotten. 

Once  in  a  foreign  city,  passing  a  latticed 
gateway  that  closed  in  a  narrow  court,  I 
caught  the  odour  of  wild  sweet  balsam.  I  do 
not  know  now  where  it  came  from,  or  what 
could  have  caused  it — but  it  stopped  me  short 
where  I  stood,  and  the  solid  brick  walls  of  that 
city  rolled  aside  like  painted  curtains,  and  the 
iron  streets  dissolved  before  my  eyes,  and  with 
the  curious  dizziness  of  nostalgia,  I  was  myself 
upon  the  hill  of  my  youth — with  the  gleaming 
river  in  the  valley,  and  a  hawk  sailing  majesti 
cally  in  the  high  blue  of  the  sky,  and  all  about 
and  everywhere  the  balsams — and  the  balsams 
— full  of  the  sweet,  wild  odours  of  the  north, 
and  of  dreaming  boyhood. 

And  there  while  my  body,  the  shell  of  me, 
loitered  in  that  strange  city,  I  was  myself  four 
thousand  miles  and  a  quarter  of  a  century 
away,  reliving,  with  a  conscious  passion  that 
boyhood  never  knew,  a  moment  caught  up, 
like  a  torch,  out  of  the  smouldering  wreckage 
of  the  past._ 


22  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

Do  not  tell  me  that  such  things  die !  They 
all  remain  with  us — all  the  sights,  and  sounds, 
and  thoughts  of  by-gone  times — awaiting  only 
the  whiff  from  some  latticed  gateway,  some 
closed-in  court — to  spring  again  into  exuberant 
life.  If  only  we  are  ready  for  the  great 
moment ! 

As  for  the  odour  of  the  burning  wastage  of 
the  fields  at  evening — I  scarcely  know  if  I  dare 
say  it — I  find  it  produces  in  the  blood  of  me  a 
kind  of  primitive  emotion,  as  though  it  stirred 
memories  older  than  my  present  life.  Some 
drowsy  cells  of  the  brain  awaken  to  a  familiar 
stimulus — the  odour  of  the  lodge-fire  of  the 
savage,  the  wigwam  of  the  Indian.  Racial 
memories ! 

But  it  is  not  the  time  of  the  day,  nor  the  turn 
of  the  season,  nor  yet  the  way  of  the  wind  that 
matters  most — but  the  ardour  and  glow  we  our 
selves  bring  to  the  fragrant  earth.  It  is  a  sad 
thing  to  reflect  that  in  a  world  so-  overflowing 
with  goodness  of  smell,  of  fine  sights  and  sweet 
sounds,  we  pass  by  hastily  and*take  so  little  of 
them.  Days  pass  when  we  see  no  beautiful 
sight,  hear  no  sweet  sound,  smell  no  memor 
able  odour:  when  we  exchange  no  single  word 
of  deeper  understanding  with  a  friend.  We 


OF  GOOD  AND  EVIL  ODOURS        23 

have  lived  a  day  and  added  nothing  to  our 
lives!    A  blind,  grubbing,  senseless  life — that! 

It  is  a  strange  thing,  also,  that  instead  of 
sharpening  the  tools  by  which  we  take  hold  of 
life  we  make  studied  efforts  to  dull  them.  We 
seem  to  fear  life  and  early  begin  to  stop  our 
ears  and  close  our  eyes  lest  we  hear  and  see  too 
much :  we  clog  our  senses  and  cloud  our  minds. 
We  seek  dull  security  and  ease  and  cease  longer 
to  desire  adventure  and  struggle.  And  then— 
the  tragedy  of  it — the  poet  we  all  have  in  us  in 
youth  begins  to  die,  the  philosopher  in  us  dies, 
the  martyr  in  us  dies,  so  that  the  long,  long 
time  beyond  youth  with  so  many  of  us  becomes 
a  busy  death.  And  this  I  think  truer  of  men 
than  of  women:  beyond  forty  many  women 
just  begin  to  awaken  to  power  and  beauty,  but 
most  men  beyond  that  age  go  on  dying.  The 
task  of  the  artist,  whether  poet,  or  musician, 
or  painter,  is  to  keep  alive  the  perishing  spirit 
of  free  adventure  in  men:  to  nourish  the  poet, 
the  prophet,  the  martyr,  we  all  have  in  us. 

One's  sense  of  smell,  like  the  sense  of  taste,  is 
sharpest  when  he  is  hungry,  and  I  am  con 
vinced  also  that  one  sees  and  hears  best  when 
unclogged  with  food,  undulled  with  drink,  un- 
drugged  with  smoke.  For  me,  also,  weariness, 


24  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

though  not  exhaustion,  seems  to  sharpen  all 
the  senses.  Keenness  goes  with  leanness. 
When  I  have  been  working  hard  or  tramping 
the  country  roads  in  the  open  air  and  come  in 
weary  and  hungry  at  night  and  catch  the  fra 
grance  of  the  evening  along  the  road  or  upon 
the  hill,  or  at  barn-doors  smell  the  unmilked 
cows,  or  at  the  doorway,  the  comfortable 
odours  of  cooking  supper — how  good  that  all 
is !  At  such  times  I  know  Esau  to  the  core :  the 
forthright,  nature-loving,  simple  man  he  was, 
coming  in  dabbled  with  the  blood  of  hunted 
animals  and  hungry  for  the  steaming  pot 
tage. 

It  follows  that  if  we  take  excessive  joys  of 
one  sense,  as  of  taste,  nature,  ever  seeking  just 
balances,  deprives  us  of  the  full  enjoyment  of 
the  others.  "I  am  stuffed,  cousin,"  cries 
Beatrice  in  the  play,  "I  cannot  smell."  "I 
have  drunk,"  remarks  the  Clown  in  Arcady, 
"what  are  roses  to  me  ?"  We  forget  that  there 
are  five  chords  in  the  great  scale  of  life — sight, 
hearing,  smell,  taste,  touch — and  few  of  us 
ever  master  the  chords  well  enough  to  get  the 
full  symphony  of  life,  but  are  something  like 
little  pig-tailed  girls  playing  Peter  Piper  with 
one  finger  while  all  the  music  of  the  universe  is 


OF  GOOD  AND  EVIL  ODOURS   25 

in  the  Great  Instrument,  and  all  to  be  had  for 
the  taking. 

Of  most  evil  odours,  it  can  be  said  that  they 
are  temporary  or  unnecessary:  and  any  un 
pleasant  odour,  such  as  that  of  fruit  sprays  in 
spring,  or  fertilizer  newly  spread  on  the  land, 
can  be  borne  and  even  welcomed  if  it  is 
appropriate  to  the  time  and  place.  Some 
smells,  evil  at  first,  become  through  usage  not 
unpleasant.  I  once  stopped  with  a  wolf- 
trapper  in  the  north  country,  who  set  his  bottle 
of  bait  outside  when  I  came  in.  He  said  it  was 
"good  and  strong"  and  sniffed  it  with  appre 
ciation.  I  agreed  with  him  that  it  was  strong. 
To  him  it  was  not  unpleasant,  though  made  of 
the  rancid  fat  of  the  muscallonge.  All  nature 
seems  to  strive  against  evil  odours,  for  when 
she  warns  us  of  decay  she  is  speeding  decay: 
and  a  manured  field  produces  later  the  best 
of  all  odours.  Almost  all  shut-in  places  sooner 
or  later  acquire  an  evil  odour:  and  it  seems  a 
requisite  for  good  smells  that  there  be  plenty 
of  sunshine  and  air;  and  so  it  is  with  the  hearts 
and  souls  of  men.  If  they  are  long  shut  in  upon 
themselves  they  grow  rancid. 


CHAPTER  III 

FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE  I 

"Listen  to  the  Exhortation  of  the  Dawn — 
Look  to  this  day!     For  it  is  Life, 
The  very  Life  of  Life!" 

ON  A  spring  morning  one  has  only  to  step 
out  into  the  open  country,  lift  his  head 
to  the  sky — and  follow  his  nose.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  big  and  golden  morning,  and  Sun 
day  to  boot,  and  I  walked  down  the  lane  to  the 
lower  edge  of  the  field,  where  the  wood  and  the 
marsh  begin.  The  sun  was  just  coming  up 
over  the  hills  and  all  the  air  was  fresh  and  clear 
and  cool.  High  in  the  heavens  a  few  fleecy 
clouds  were  drifting,  and  the  air  was  just 
enough  astir  to  waken  the  hemlocks  into  faint 
and  sleepy  exchanges  of  confidence. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  morning  that  the  world 
was  never  before  so  high,  so  airy,  so  golden. 

26 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  27 

All  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  essence  of  sun 
shine  and  spring  morning — so  that  one's  spirit 
dissolved  in  it,  became  a  part  of  it.  Such  a 
morning!  Such  a  morning! 

From  that  place  and  just  as  I  was  I  set  off 
across  the  open  land. 

It  was  the  time  of  all  times  for  good  odours 
—soon  after  sunrise — before  the  heat  of  the 
day  had  drawn  off  the  rich  distillations  of  the 
night. 

In  that  keen  moment  I  caught,  drifting,  a 
faint  but  wild  fragrance  upon  the  air,  and 
veered  northward  full  into  the  way  of  the  wind. 
I  could  not  at  first  tell  what  this  particular 
odour  was,  nor  separate  it  from  the  general 
good  odour  of  the  earth ;  but  I  followed  it  in 
tently  across  the  moor-like  open  land.  Once  I 
thought  I  had  lost  it  entirely,  or  that  the  faint 
northern  airs  had  shifted,  but  I  soon  caught  it 
clearly  again,  and  just  as  I  was  saying  to  my 
self,  "I've  got  it,  I've  got  it!"— for  it  is  a 
great  pleasure  to  identify  a  friendly  odour  in 
the  fields — I  saw,  near  the  bank  of  the  brook, 
among  ferns  and  raspberry  bushes,  a  thorn- 
apple  tree  in  full  bloom. 

"So  there  you  are!"  I  said. 

I  hastened  toward  it,  now  in  the  full  current 


28  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

and  glory  of  its  fragrance.  The  sun,  looking 
over  the  taller  trees  to  the  east,  had  crowned 
the  top  of  it  with  gold,  so  that  it  was  beautiful 
to  see ;  and  it  was  full  of  honey  bees  as  excited 
as  I. 

A  score  of  feet  onward  toward  the  wind,  be 
yond  the  !thorn-apple  tree,  I  passed  wholly  out 
of  the  range  of  its  fragrance  into  another  world, 
and  began  trying  for  some  new  odour.  After 
one  or  two  false  scents,  for  this  pursuit  has  all 
the  hazards  known  to  the  hunter,  I  caught  an 
odour  long  known  to  me,  not  strong,  nor  yet 
very  wonderful,  but  distinctive.  It  led  me  still 
a  little  distance  northward  to  a  sunny  slope 
just  beyond  a  bit  of  marsh,  and,  sure  enough,  I 
found  an  old  friend,  the  wild  sweet  geranium, 
a  world  of  it,  in  full  bloom,  and  I  sat  down 
there  for  some  time  to  enjoy  it  fully. 

Beyond  that,  and  across  a  field  wild  with 
tangles  of  huckleberry  bushes  and  sheep  laurel 
where  the  bluets  and  buttercups  were  bloom 
ing,  and  in  shady  spots  the  shy  white  violet,  I 
searched  for  the  odour  of  a  certain  clump  of 
pine  trees  I  discovered  long  ago.  I  knew  that  I 
must  come  upon  it  soon,  but  could  not  tell  just 
when  or  where.  I  held  up  a  moistened  finger  to 
make  sure  of  the  exact  direction  of  the  wind, 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  29 

and  bearing,  then, V  little  eastward,  soon  came 
full  upon  it — as  a  hunter  might  surprise  a  deer 
in  the  forest.  I  crossed  the  brook  a  second 
time  and  through  a  little  marsh,  making  it  the 
rule  of  the  game  never  to  lose  for  an  instant  the 
scent  I  was  following — even  though  I  stopped 
in  a  low  spot  to  admire  a  mass  of  thrifty  blue 
flags,  now  beginning  to  bloom — and  came  thus 
to  the  pines  I  was  seeking.  They  are  not  great 
trees,  nor  noble,  but  gnarled  and  angular 
and  stunted,  for  the  soil  in  that  place  is  poor 
and  thin,  and  the  winds  in  winter  keen;  but 
the  brown  blanket  of  needles  they  spread  and 
the  shade  they  offer  the  traveller  are  not  less 
hospitable ;  nor  the  fragrance  they  give  off  less 
enchanting.  The  odour  of  the  pine  is  one  I  love. 

I  sat  down  there  in  a  place  I  chose  long 
ago — a  place  already  as  familiar  with  pleas 
ing  memories  as  a  favourite  room — so  that  I 
wonder  that  some  of  the  notes  I  have  written 
there  do  not  of  themselves  exhale  the  very 
odour  of  the  pines. 

And  all  about  was  hung  a  fair  tapestry  of 
green,  and  the  earthy  floor  was  cleanly  car 
peted  with  brown,  and  the  roof  above  was  in 
arched  mosaic,  the  deep,  deep  blue  of  the  sky 
seen  through  the  gnarled  and  knotted  branches 


30  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

of  the  pines.  Through  a  little  opening  among 
the  trees,  as  through  a  window,  I  could  see  the 
cattle  feeding  in  the  wide  meadows,  all  headed 
alike,  and  yellow  butterflies  drifted  across  the 
open  spaces,  and  there  were  bumblebees  and 
dragonflies.  And  presently  I  heard  some  one 
tapping,  tapping,  at  the  door  of  the  wood  and 
glancing  up  quickly  I  saw  my  early  visitor. 
There  he  was,  as  neighbourly  as  you  please, 
and  not  in  the  least  awed  by  my  intrusion; 
there  he  was,  far  out  on  the  limb  of  a  dead  tree, 
stepping  energetically  up  and  down,  like  a 
sailor  reefing  a  sail,  and  rapping  and  tapping  as 
he  worked — a  downy  woodpecker. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  I  said. 

He  stopped  for  scarcely  a  second,  cocked  one 
eye  at  me,  and  went  back  to  his  work  again. 
Who  was  I  that  I  should  interrupt  his  break 
fast  ? 

And  I  was  glad  I  was  there,  and  I  began 
enumerating,  as  though  I  were  the  accredited 
reporter  for  the  Woodland  Gazette,  all  the  good 
news  of  the  day. 

"The  beech  trees,"  I  said  aloud,  "have  come 
at  last  to  full  leafage.  The  wild  blackberries 
are  ready  to  bloom,  the  swamp  roses  are 
budded.  Brown  planted  fields  I  see,  and 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  31 

drooping  elms,  and  the  young  crows  cry  from 
their  nests  on  the  knoll.  ...  I  know  now 
that,  whoever  I  am,  whatever  I  do,  I  am  wel 
come  here;  the  meadows  are  as  green  this 
spring  for  Tom  the  drunkard,  and  for  Jim  the 
thief,  as  for  Jonathan  the  parson,  or  for  Walt 
the  poet :  the  wild  cherry  blooms  as  richly,  and 

the  odour  of  the  pine  is  as  sweet " 

At  that  moment,  like  a  flame  for  clearness,  I 
understood  some  of  the  deep  and  simple  things 
of  life,  as  that  we  are  to  be  like  the  friendly 
pines,  and  the  elm  trees,  and  the  open  fields, 
and  reject  no  man  and  judge  no  man.  Once,  a 
long  time  ago,  I  read  a  sober  treatise  by  one 
who  tried  to  prove  with  elaborate  knowledge 
that,  upon  the  whole,  good  was  triumphant  in 
this  world,  and  that  probably  there  was  a  God, 
and  I  remember  going  out  dully  afterward 
upon  the  hill,  for  I  was  weighed  down  with  a 
strange  depression,  and  the  world  seemed  to 
me  a  hard,  cold,  narrow  place  where  good  must 
be  heavily  demonstrated  in  books.  And  as  I 
sat  there  the  evening  fell,  a  star  or  two  came 
out  in  the  clear  blue  of  the  sky,  and  suddenly 
it  became  all  simple  to  me,  so  that  I  laughed 
aloud  at  that  laborious  big-wig  for  spending  so 
many  futile  years  in  seeking  doubtful  proof  of 


32  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

what  he  might  have  learned  in  one  rare  hour 
upon  my  hill.  And  far  more  than  he  could 
prove — far  more.  .  .  . 

As  I  came  away  from  that  place  I  knew  I 
should  never  again  be  quite  the  same  person  I 
was  before. 


And  as  I  sat  there  the  evening  fell,  a  star  or  two  came  out 
in  the  clear  blue  of  the  sky 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  33 

Well,  we  cannot  remain  steadily  upon  the 
heights.  At  least  I  cannot,  and  would  not  if 
I  could.  After  I  have  been  out  about  so  long 
on  such  an  adventure  as  this,  something  lets  go 
inside  of  me,  and  I  come  down  out  of  the 
mountain — and  yet  know  deeply  that  I  have 
been  where  the  bush  was  burning;  and  have 
heard  the  Voice  in  the  Fire. 

So  it  was  yesterday  morning.  I  realized  sud 
denly  that  I  was  hungry — commonly,  coarsely 
hungry.  My  whole  attention,  I  was  going  to 
say  my  whole  soul,  shifted  to  the  thought  of 
ham  and  eggs !  This  may  seem  a  tremendous 
anti-climax,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  a  sober  re 
port  of  what  happened.  At  the  first  onset  of 
this  new  mood,  the  ham-and-eggs  mood,  let  us 
call  it,  I  was  a  little  ashamed  or  abashed  at  the 
remembrance  of  my  wild  flights,  and  had  a 
laugh  at  the  thought  of  myself  floundering 
around  in  the  marshes  and  fields  a  mile  from 
home,  when  Harriet,  no  doubt,  had  breakfast 
waiting  for  me !  What  absurd,  contradictory, 
inconsistent,  cowardly  creatures  we  are,  any 
way! 

The  house  seemed  an  inconceivable  distance 
away,  and  the  only  real  thing  in  the  world  the 
gnawing  emptiness  under  my  belt.  And  I  was 


34  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

wet  to  my  knees,  and  the  tangled  huckleberry 
bushes  and  sheep  laurel  and  hardback  I  had 
passed  through  so  joyously  a  short  time  before 
now  clung  heavily  about  my  legs  as  I  struggled 
through  them.  And  the  sun  was  hot  and  high 
— and  there  were  innumerable  small,  black 
buzzing  flies.  .  .  . 

To  cap  the  climax,  whom  should  I  meet  as  I 
was  crossing  the  fence  into  the  lower  land  but 
my  friend  Horace.  He  had  been  out  early 
looking  for  a  cow  that  had  dropped  her  calf  in 
the  woods,  and  was  now  driving  them  slowly 
up  the  lane,  the  cow  a  true  pattern  of  solicitous 
motherhood,  the  calf  a  true  pattern  of  youth, 
dashing  about  upon  uncertain  legs. 

"Takin'  the  air,  David?" 

I  amuse  Horace.  Horace  is  an  important 
man  in  this  community.  He  has  big,  solid 
barns,  and  money  in  the  bank,  and  a  reputa 
tion  for  hardheadedness.  He  is  also  known  as 
a  "driver";  and  has  had  sore  trouble  with  a 
favourite  son.  He  believes  in  "goin'  it  slow" 
and  "playin'  safe,"  and  he  is  convinced  that 
"ye  can't  change  human  nature." 

His  question  came  to  me  with  a  kind  of 
shock.  I  imagined  with  a  vividness  impossible 
to  describe  what  Horace  would  think  if  I  an- 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  35 

swered  him  squarely  and  honestly,  if  I  were  to 
say: 

"I've  been  down  in  the  marshes  following 
my  nose — enjoying  the  thorn  apples  and  the 
wild  geraniums,  talking  with  a  woodpecker  and 
reporting  the  morning  news  of  the  woods  for  an 
imaginary  newspaper." 

I  was  hungry,  and  in  a  mood  to  smile  at 
myself  anyway  (good-humou redly  and  forgiv 
ingly  as  we  always  smile  at  ourselves !)  before 
I  met  Horace,  and  the  flashing  vision  I  had  of 
Horace's  dry,  superior  smile  finished  me.  Was 
there  really  anything  in  this  world  but  cows 
and  calves,  and  great  solid  barns,  and  oatcrops, 
and  cash  in  the  bank? 

"  Been  in  the  brook?"  asked  Horace,  observ 
ing  my  wet  legs. 

Talk  about  the  courage  to  face  cannon  and 
Cossacks!  It  is  nothing  to  the  courage  re 
quired  to  speak  aloud  in  broad  daylight  of  the 
finest  things  we  have  in  us !  I  was  not  equal  to  it. 

"Oh,  I've  been  down  for  a  tramp  in  the 
marsh,"  I  said,  trying  to  put  him  off. 

But  Horace  is  a  Yankee  of  the  Yankees  and 
loves  nothing  better  than  to  chase  his  friends 
into  corners  with  questions,  and  leave  them 
ultimately  with  the  impression  that  they  are 


36  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

somehow  less  sound,  sensible,  practical,  than 
he  is — and  he  usually  proves  it,  not  because  he 
is  right,  but  because  he  is  sure,  and  in  a  world 
of  shadowy  half-beliefs  and  half-believers  he  is 
without  doubts. 

"What  ye  find  down  there?"  asked  Horace. 

"Oh,  I  was  just  looking  around  to  see  how 
the  spring  was  coming  on." 

"Hm-m,"  said  Horace,  eloquently,  and 
when  I  did  not  reply,  he  continued,  "Often  git 
out  in  the  morning  as  early  as  this?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "often." 

"And  do  you  find  things  any  different  now 
from  what  they  would  be  later  in  the  day?" 

At  this  the  humour  of  the  whole  situation 
dawned  on  me  and  I  began  to  revive.  When 
things  grow  hopelessly  complicated,  and  we 
can't  laugh,  we  do  either  one  of  two  things: 
we  lie  or  we  die.  But  if  we  can  laugh,  we  can 
fight !  And  be  honest ! 

"Horace,"  I  said,  "I  know  what  you  are 
thinking  about." 

Horace's  face  remained  perfectly  impassive, 
but  there  was  a  glint  of  curiosity  in  his  eye. 

"You've  been  thinking  I've  been  wasting 
my  time  beating  around  down  there  in  the 
swamp  just  to  look  at  things  and  smell  of 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  37 

things — which  you  wouldn't  do.  You  think 
I'm  a  kind  of  impractical  dreamer,  now,  don't 
you,  Horace?  I'll  warrant  you've  told  your 
wife  just  that  more  than  once.  Come,  now!" 

I  think  I  made  a  rather  shrewd  hit,  for  Hor 
ace  looked  uncomfortable  and  a  little  foolish. 

"Come  now,  honest!"  I  laughed  and 
looked  him  in  the  eye. 

"Waal,  now,  ye  see " 

"Of  course  you  do,  and  I  don't  mind  it  in  the 
least." 

A  little  dry  gleam  of  humour  came  in  his  eye. 

"Ain't  ye?",; 

It's  a  fine  thing  to  have  it  straight  out  with  a 
friend. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I'm  the  practical  man  and 
you're  the  dreamer.  I've  rarely  known  in  all 
my  life,  Horace,  such  a  confirmed  dreamer  as 
you  are,  nor  a  more  impractical  one." 

Horace  laughed. 

"How  do  ye  make  that  out?" 

With  this  my  spirit  returned  to  me  and  I 
countered  with  a  question  as  good  as  his.  It  is 
as  valuable  in  argument  as  in  war  to  secure  the 
offensive. 

"Horace,  what  are  you  working  for,  any 
how?" 


38  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

This  is  always  a  devastating  shot.  Ninety- 
nine  out  of  every  hundred  human  beings  are 
desperately  at  work  grubbing,  sweating,  wor 
rying,  thinking,  sorrowing,  enjoying,  without 
in  the  least  knowing  why. 

"Why,  to  make  a  living — same  as  you," 
said  Horace. 

"Oh,  come  now,  if  I  were  to  spread  the  re 
port  in  town  that  a  poor  neighbour  of  mine— 
that's  you,  Horace — was  just  making  his  liv 
ing,  that  he  himself  had  told  me  so,  what 
would  you  say  ?  Horace,  what  are  you  work 
ing  for?  It's  something  more  than  a  mere 
living." 

"Waal,  now,  I'll  tell  ye,  if  ye  want  it 
straight,  I'm  layin'  aside  a  little  something  for 
a  rainy  day." 

"A  little  something!"  this  in  the  exact  in 
flection  of  irony  by  which  here  in  the  country 
we  express  our  opinion  that  a  friend  has  really 
a  good  deal  more  laid  aside  than  anybody 
knows  about.  Horace  smiled  also  in  the  exact 
manner  of  one  so  complimented. 

"Horace,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  that 
thirty  thousand  dollars?" 

"Thirty  thousand!"  Horace  looks  at  me 
and  smiles,  and  I  look  at  Horace  and  smile. 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  39 

"Honest  now!" 

"Waal,  I'll  tell  ye — a  little  peace  and  com 
fort  for  me  and  Josie  in  our  old  age,  and  a  little 
something  to  make  the  children  remember  us 
when  we're  gone.  Isn't  that  worth  working 
for?" 

He  said  this  with  downright  seriousness.  I 
did  not  press  him  further,  but  if  I  had  tried  I 
could  probably  have  got  the  even  deeper  ad 
mission  of  that  faith  that  lies,  like  bed  rock,  in 
the  thought  of  most  men — that  honesty  and 
decency  here  will  not  be  without  its  reward 
there,  however  they  may  define  the  "there." 
Some  "prophet's  paradise  to  come!" 

"I  knew  it!"  I  said.  "Horace,  you're  a 
dreamer,  too.  You  are  dreaming  of  peace  and 
comfort  in  your  old  age,  a  little  quiet  house  in 
town  where  you  won't  have  to  labour  as  hard 
as  you  do  now,  where  you  won't  be  worried  by 
crops  and  weather,  and  where  Mrs.  Horace 
will  be  able  to  rest  after  so  many  years  of  care 
and  work  and  sorrow — a  kind  of  earthly 
heaven!  And  you  are  dreaming  of  leaving  a 
bit  to  your  children  and  grandchildren,  and 
dreaming  of  the  gratitude  they  will  express. 
All  dreams,  Horace!" 

"Oh,  waal " 


40  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"The  fact  is,  you  are  working  for  a  dream, 
and  living  on  dreams — isn't  that  true?" 

"Waal,  now,  if  you  mean  it  that  way 

"I  see  I  haven't  got  you  beaten  yet,  Hor 
ace!" 

He  smiled  broadly. 

"We  are  all  amiable  enough  with  our  own 
dreams.  You  think  that  what  you  are  working 
for — your  dream — is  somehow  sounder  and 
more  practical  than  what  I  am  working  for." 

Horace  started  to  reply,  but  had  scarcely  de 
bouched  from  his  trenches  when  I  opened  on 
him  with  one  of  my  twenty-fours. 

"How  do  you  know  that  you  are  ever  going 
to  be  old?" 

It  hit. 

"And  if  you  do  grow  old,  how  do  you  know 
that  thirty  thousand  dollars — oh,  we'll  call  it 
that — is  really  enough,  provided  you  don't  lose 
it  before,  to  buy  peace  and  comfort  for  you,  or 
that  what  you  leave  your  children  will  make 
either  you  or  them  any  happier  ?  Peace  and 
comfort  and  happiness  are  terribly  expensive, 
Horace — and  prices  have  been  going  up  fast 
since  this  war  began!" 

Horace  looked  at  me  uncomfortably,  as  men 
do  in  the  world  when  you  shake  the  founda- 


FOLLOW  YOUR  NOSE!  41 

tions  of  the  tabernacle.  I  have  thought  since 
that  I  probably  pressed  him  too  far;  but  these 
things  go  deep  with  me. 

"No,  Horace,"  I  said,  "you  are  the  dreamer 
—and  the  impractical  dreamer  at  that!" 

For  a  moment  Horace  answered  nothing; 
and  we  both  stood  still  there  in  the  soft  morn 
ing  sunshine  with  the  peaceful  fields  and 
woods  all  about  us,  two  human  atoms  strug 
gling  hotly  with  questions  too  large  for  us. 
The  cow  and  the  new  calf  were  long  out  of 
sight.  Horace  made  a  motion  as  if  to  follow 
them  up  the  lane,  but  I  held  him  with  my 
glittering  eye — as  I  think  of  it  since,  not  with 
out  a  kind  of  amusement  at  my  own  serious 
ness. 

"I'm  the  practical  man,  Horace,  for  I  want 
my  peace  now,  and  my  happiness  now,  and  my 
God  now.  I  can't  wait.  My  barns  may  burn 
or  my  cattle  die,  or  the  solid  bank  where  I  keep 
my  deferred  joy  may  fail,  or  I  myself  by  to 
morrow  be  no  longer  here." 

So  powerfully  and  vividly  did  this  thought 
take  possession  of  me  that  I  cannot  now  re 
member  to  have"  said  a  decent  good-bye  to 
Horace  (never  mind,  he  knows  me!).  At  least 
when  I  was  halfway  up  the  hill  I  found  myself 


42  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

gesticulating  with  one  clenched  fist  and  saying 
to  myself  with  a  kind  of  passion :  "Why  wait 
to  be  peaceful?  Why  not  be  peaceful  now? 
Why  not  be  happy  now?  Why  not  be  rich 
now?" 

For  I  think  it  truth  that  a  life  uncom- 
manded  now  is  uncommanded ;  a  life  unen- 
joyed  now  is  unenjoyed ;  a  life  not  lived  wisely 
now  is  not  lived  wisely:  for  the  past  is  gone 
and  no  one  knows  the  future. 

As  for  Horace,  is  he  convinced  that  he  is  an 
impractical  dreamer  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it !  He  was 
merely  flurried  for  a  moment  in  his  mind,  and 
probably  thinks  me  now,  more  than  ever  be 
fore,  just  what  I  think  him.  Absurd  place, 
isn't  it,  this  world  ? 

So  I  reached  home  at  last.  You  have  no 
idea,  unless  you  have  tried  it  yourself,  how 
good  breakfast  tastes  after  a  three-mile  tramp 
in  the  sharp  morning  air.  The  odour  of  ham 
and  eggs,  and  new  muffins,  and  coffee,  as  you 
come  up  the  hill — there  is  an  odour  for  you! 
And  it  was  good  to  see  Harriet. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "you  are  a  sight  for  tired 
eyes." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  GREEN  PEOPLE 

I  HAVE  always  had  a  fondness,  when  upon 
my  travels  about  the  world  of  the  near-by 
woods  and  fields,  for  nipping  a  bit  of  a  twig 
here  and  there  and  tasting  the  tart  or  bitter 
quality  of  it.  I  suppose  the  instinct  descends 
to  me  from  the  herbivorous  side  of  my  distant 
ancestry.  I  love  a  spray  of  white  cedar,  espe 
cially  the  spicy,  sweet  inside  bark,  or  a  pine 
needle,  or  the  tender,  sweet,  juicy  end  of  a 
spike  of  timothy  grass  drawn  slowly  from  its 
close-fitting  sheath,  or  a  twig  of  the  birch  that 
tastes  like  wintergreen. 

43 


44  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

I  think  this  no  strange  or  unusual  instinct, 
for  I  have  seen  many  other  people  doing  it, 
especially  farmers  around  here,  who  go  through 
the  fields  nipping  the  new  oats,  testing  the  red- 
top,  or  chewing  a  bit  of  sassafras  bark.  I  have 
in  mind  a  clump  of  shrubbery  in  the  town  road, 
where  an  old  house  once  stood,  of  the  kind 
called  here  by  some  the  "sweet-scented  shrub," 
and  the  branches  of  it  nearest  the  road  are 
quite  clipped  and  stunted  for  being  nipped 
at  by  old  ladies  who  pass  that  way  and  take 
to  it  like  cats  to  catnip. 

For  a  long  time  this  was  a  wholly  unor 
ganized,  indeed  all  but  unconscious,  pleasure, 
a  true  pattern  of  the  childish  way  we  take  hold 
of  the  earth ;  but  when  I  began  to  come  newly 
alive  to  all  things — as  I  have  already  related 
— I  chanced  upon  this  curious,  undeveloped 
instinct. 

"What  is  it  I  have  here?"  I  asked  myself, 
for  I  thought  this  might  be  a  new  handle  for 
getting  hold  of  nature. 

Along  one  edge  of  my  field  is  a  natural  hedge 
of  wild  cherry,  young  elms  and  ashes,  dog 
wood,  black  raspberry  bushes  and  the  like, 
which  has  long  been  a  pleasure  to  the  eye, 
especially  in  the  early  morning  when  the  shad- 


THE  GREEN  PEOPLE  45 

ows  of  it  lie  long  and  cool  upon  the  meadow. 
Many  times  I  have  walked  that  way  to  admire 
it,  or  to  listen  for  the  catbirds  that  nest  there, 
or  to  steal  upon  a  certain  gray  squirrel  who 
comes  out  from  his  home  in  the  chestnut  tree 
on  a  fine  morning  to  inspect  his  premises. 

It  occurred  to  me  one  day  that  I  would  make 
the  acquaintance  of  this  hedge  in  a  new  way; 
so  I  passed  slowly  along  it  where  the  branches 
of  the  trees  brushed  my  shoulder  and  picked  a 
twig  here  and  there  and  bit  it  through.  "This 
is  cherry,"  I  said;  "this  is  elm,  this  is  dog 
wood."  And  it  was  a  fine  adventure  to  know 
old  friends  in  new  ways,  for  I  had  never 
thought  before  to  test  the  trees  and  shrubs  by 
their  taste  and  smell.  After  that,  whenever  I 
passed  that  way,  I  closed  my  eyes  and  tried  for 
further  identifications  by  taste,  and  was  soon 
able  to  tell  quickly  half  a  dozen  other  varieties 
of  trees,  shrubs,  and  smaller  plants  along  that 
bit  of  meadow. 

Presently,  as  one  who  learns  to  navigate  still 
water  near  shore  longs  for  more  thrilling 
voyages,  I  tried  the  grassy  old  roads  in  the 
woods,  where  young  trees  and  other  growths 
were  to  be  found  in  great  variety:  and  had  a 
joy  of  it  I  cannot  describe,  for  old  and  familiar 


46  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

places  were  thus  made  new  and  wonderful  to 
me.  And  when  I  think  of  those  places,  now, 
say  in  winter,  I  grasp  them  more  vividly  and 
strongly  than  ever  I  did  before,  for  I  think  not 
only  how  they  look,  but  how  they  taste  and 
smell,  and  !  even  know  many  of  the  growing 
things  by  the  touch  of  them.  It  is  certain  that 
our  grasp  of  life  is  in  direct  proportion  to  the 
variety  and  warmth  of  the  ways  in  which  we 
lay  hold  of  it.  No  thought — no  beauty  and  no 

joy- 
On  these  excursions  I  have  often  reflected 

that  if  I  were  blind,  I  should  still  find  here  un 
explored  joys  of  life,  and  should  make  it  a 
point  to  know  all  the  friendly  trees  and  shrubs 
around  about  by  the  taste  or  smell  or  touch  of 
them.  I  think  seriously  that  this  method  of 
widening  the  world  of  the  blind,  and  increasing 
their  narrower  joys,  might  well  be  developed, 
though  it  would  be  wise  for  such  as  do  take  it 
to  borrow  first  the  eyes  of  a  friend  to  see  that 
no  poison  ivy,  which  certain  rascally  birds 
plant  along  our  fences  and  hedges,  is  lurking 
about. 

Save  for  this  precaution  I  know  of  nothing 
that  will  injure  the  taster,  though  he  must  be 
prepared,  here  and  there,  for  shocks  and  thrills 


THE  GREEN  PEOPLE  47 

of  bitterness.  A  lilac  leaf,  for  example,  and  to 
a  scarcely  lesser  degree  the  willow  and  the 
poplar  are,  when  bitten  through,  of  a  penetrat 
ing  and  intense  bitterness ;  but  do  no  harm,  and 
will  daunt  no  one  who  is  really  adventurous. 
There  is  yet  to  be  written  a  botany,  or,  better 
yet,  a  book  of  nature,  for  the  blind. 

It  is  by  knowing  human  beings  that  we  come 
to  understand  them,  and  by  understanding 
them  come  to  love  them,  and  so  it  is  with  the 
green  people.  When  I  was  a  boy  in  the  wild 
north  country  trees  were  enemies  to  be  ruth 
lessly  fought — to  be  cut  down,  sawed,  split, 
burned — anything  to  be  rid  of  them.  The  ideal 
in  making  a  home  place  was  to  push  the  forest 
as  far  away  from  it  as  possible.  But  now, 
when  I  go  to  the  woods,  it  is  like  going  among 
old  and  treasured  friends,  and  with  riper 
acquaintance  the  trees  come  to  take  on, 
curiously,  a  kind  of  personality,  so  that  I  am 
much  fonder  of  some  trees  than  of  others,  and 
instinctively  seek  out  the  companionship  of 
certain  trees  in  certain  moods,  as  one  will  his 
friends. 

I  love  the  unfolding  beeches  in  spring,  and 
the  pines  in  winter;  the  elms  I  care  for  afar  off, 
like  great  aloof  men,  whom  I  can  admire;  but 


48 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS 


for  friendly  confidences  give  me  an  apple  tree 
in  an  old  green  meadow. 

In  this  more  complete  understanding  I  have 


For  friendly  confidences  give  me  an  apple  tree  in  an  old  green 
meadow 

been  much  aided  by  getting  hold  of  my  friends 
of  the  hedges  and  hills  in  the  new  ways  I  have 
described.  At  times  I  even  feel  that  I  have 


THE  GREEN  PEOPLE  49 

become  a  fully  accepted  member  of  the 
Fraternity  of  the  Living  Earth,  for  I  have 
already  received  many  of  the  benefits  which  go 
with  that  association;  and  I  know  now  for  a 
certainty  that  it  makes  no  objection  to  its 
members  because  they  are  old,  or  sad,  or  have 
sinned,  but  welcomes  them  all  alike. 

The  essential  taste  of  the  cherry  and  peach 
and  all  their  numerous  relatives  is,  in  variation, 
that  of  the  peach  pit,  so  that  the  whole  tribe 
may  be  easily  recognized,  though  it  was  some 
time  before  I  could  tell  with  certainty  the 
peach  from  the  cherry.  The  oak  shoot,  when 
chewed  a  little,  tastes  exactly  like  the  smell  of 
new  oak  lumber;  the  maple  has  a  peculiar 
taste  and  smell  of  its  own  that  I  can  find  no 
comparison  for,  and  the  poplar  is  one  of  the 
bitterest  trees  that  ever  I  have  tasted.  The 
evergreen  trees — pines,  spruces,  hemlocks, 
balsams,  cedars — are  to  me  about  the  pleasant- 
est  of  all,  both  in  taste  and  odour,  and  though 
the  spruces  and  pines  taste  and  smell  much 
alike  at  first,  one  soon  learns  to  distinguish 
them.  The  elm  has  a  rather  agreeable,  non 
descript,  bitterish  taste,  but  the  linden  is 
gummy  and  of  a  mediocre  quality,  like  the 
tree  itself,  which  I  dislike.  Some  of  the  sweet- 


So  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

est  flowering  shrubs,  such  as  the  lilac,  have 
the  bitterest  of  leaves  and  twigs  or,  like  certain 
kinds  of  clematis,  have  a  seed  that  when  green 
is  sharper  than  cayenne  pepper,  while  others, 
like  the  rose,  are  pleasanter  in  flavour.  The  ash 
tree  is  not  too  bitter  and  a  little  sour. 

I  give  here  only  a  few  of  the  commoner  ex 
amples,  for  I  wish  to  make  this  no  tedious  ca,t- 
alogue  of  the  flavours  of  the  green  people.  I 
am  not  a  scientist,  nor  would  wish  to  be  taken 
for  one.  Only  last  winter  I  had  my  pretensions 
sadly  shocked  when  I  tasted  twigs  cut  from 
various  trees  and  shrubs  and  tried  to  identify 
them  by  taste  or  by  smell,  and  while  it  was  a 
pleasing  experiment  I  found  I  could  not  cer 
tainly  place  above  half  of  them;  partly,  no 
doubt,  because  many  growing  things  keep 
their  flavours  well  wrapped  up  in  winter.  No, 
I  have  not  gone  far  upon  this  pleasant  road, 
but  neither  am  I  in  any  great  hurry;  for  there 
yet  remains  much  time  in  this  and  my  future 
lives  to  conquer  the  secrets  of  the  earth.  I 
plan  to  devote  at  least  one  entire  life  to  science, 
and  may  find  I  need  several ! 

One  great  reason  why  the  sense  of  taste  and 
the  sense  of  smell  have  not  the  same  honour  as 
the  sense  of  sight  or  of  hearing  is  that  no  way 


THE  GREEN  PEOPLE  51 

has  yet  been  found  to  make  a  true  art  of  either. 
For  sight,  we  have  painting,  sculpturing,  pho 
tography,  architecture,  and  the  like;  and  for 
hearing,  music;  and  for  both,  poetry  and  the 
drama.  But  the  other  senses  are  more  purely 
personal,  and  have  not  only  been  little  studied 
or  thought  about,  but  are  the  ones  least  de 
veloped,  and  most  dimmed  and  clogged  by  the 
customs  of  our  lives. 

For  the  sense  of  smell  we  have,  indeed,  the 
perfumer's  art,  but  a  poor  rudimentary  art  it 
is,  giving  little  freedom  for  the  artist  who 
would  draw  his  inspirations  freshly  from 
nature.  I  can,  indeed,  describe  poorly  in  words 
the  odours  of  this  June  morning — the  mingled 
lilacs,  late  wild  cherries,  new-broken  soil,  and 
the  fragrance  of  the  sun  on  green  verdure,  for 
there  are  here  both  lyrical  and  symphonic 
odours — but  how  inadequate  it  is!  I  can  tell 
you  what  I  feel  and  smell  and  taste,  and  give 
you,  perhaps,  a  desire  another  spring  to  spend 
the  months  of  May  and  June  in  the  country, 
but  I  can  scarcely  make  you  live  again  the 
very  moment  of  life  I  have  lived,  which  is  the 
magic  quality  of  the  best  art.  The  art  of  the 
perfumer  which,  like  all  crude  art,  thrives  upon 
blatancy,  does  not  make  us  go  to  gardens,  or 


52  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

love  the  rose,  but  often  instils  in  us  a  kind  of 
artificiality,  so  that  perfumes,  so  far  from  being 
an  inspiration  to  us,  increasing  our  lives,  be 
come  often  the  badge  of  the  abnormal,  used 
by  those  unsatisfied  with  simple,  clean,  natural 
things. 

And  as  a  people  deficient  in  musical  art  de 
lights  in  ragtime  tunes,  so  a  people  deficient  in 
the  true  art  of  tasting  and  smelling  delights  in 
ragtime  odours  and  ragtime  tastes. 

I  do  not  know  that  the  three  so-called  lesser 
senses  will  ever  be  organized  to  the  point 
where  they  are  served  by  well-established 
arts,  but  this  I  do  know — that  there  are  three 
great  ways  of  entering  upon  a  better  under 
standing  of  this  magic  earth  which  are  now 
neglected. 

I  think  we  have  come  upon  hasty  and  heated 
days,  and  are  too  much  mastered  by  the  god  of 
hurry  and  the  swift  and  greedy  eye.  We  accept 
flashing  pictures  of  life  for  life  itself;  we  rush 
here  and  rush  there  and,  having  arrived,  rush 
away  again — to  what  sensible  purpose?  Be 
still  a  little!  Be  still! 

I  do  not  mean  by  stillness,  stagnation  nor 
yet  lazy  contentment,  but  life  more  deeply 
thought  about,  more  intensely  realized,  an 


THE  GREEN  PEOPLE  53 

activity  so  concentrated  that  it  is  quiet.  Be 
still  then! 

So  it  is  that,  though  I  am  no  worshipper  of 
the  old,  I  think  the  older  gardeners  had  in 
some  ways  a  better  practice  of  the  art  than  we 
have,  for  they  planted  not  for  the  eye  alone  but 
for  the  nose  and  the  sense  of  taste  and  even,  in 
growing  such  plants  as  the  lamb's  tongue,  to 
gratify,  curiously,  the  sense  of  touch.  They 
loved  the  scented  herbs,  and  appropriately 
called  them  simples.  Some  of  these  old  simples 
I  am  greatly  fond  of,  and  like  to  snip  a  leaf  as  I 
go  by  to  smell  or  taste;  but  many  of  them,  I 
here  confess,  have  for  me  a  rank  and  culinary 
odour — as  sage  and  thyme  and  the  bold 
scarlet  monarda,  sometimes  called  berga- 
mot. 

But  if  their  actual  fragrance  is  not  always 
pleasing,  and  their  uses  are  now  grown  obscure, 
I  love  well  the  names  of  many  of  them — 
whether  from  ancient  association  or  because 
the  words  themselves  fall  pleasantly  upon  the 
ear,  as,  for  example,  sweet  marjoram  and  dill, 
anise  and  summer  savoury,  lavender  and  sweet 
basil.  Coriander!  Caraway!  Cumin!  And 
"there's  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance; 
pray  you,  love,  remember  .  .  .  there's 


54  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

fennel  for  you,  and  columbines :  there's  rue  for 

you:  and  here's  some  for  me "  All  sweet 

names  that  one  loves  to  roll  under  his  tongue. 

I  have  not  any  great  number  of  these  herbs 
in  my  own  garden,  but,  when  I  go  among  those 
I  do  have,  I  like  to  call  them  by  their  familiar 
names  as  I  would  a  dignified  doctor  or  pro 
fessor,  if  ever  I  knew  him  well  enough. 

It  is  in  this  want  of  balance  and  quietude 
that  the  age  fails  most.  We  are  all  for  action, 
not  at  all  for  reflection ;  we  think  there  are  easy 
ways  to  knowledge  and  shortcuts  to  perfection; 
we  are  for  laws  rather  than  for  life. 

And  this  reminds  me  inevitably  of  a  mellow- 
spirited  old  friend  who  lives  not  a  thousand 
miles  from  here — I  must  not  tell  his  name — • 
whose  greatest  word  is  "proportion."  At  this 
moment,  as  I  write,  I  can  hear  the  roll  of  his 
resonant  old  voice  on  the  syllable  p-o-r — prop- 
o-rtion.  He  is  the  kind  of  man  good  to  know 
and  to  trust. 

If  ever  I  bring  him  a  hard  problem,  as,  in 
deed,  I  delight  to  do,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  sec 
him  square  himself  to  meet  it.  A  light  comes 
in  his  eye,  he  draws  back  his  chin  a  little  and 
exclaims  occasionally:  "Well — well!" 

He  will  have  all  the  facts  and  circumstances 


THE  GREEN  PEOPLE  55 

fully  mobilized,  standing  up  side  by  side  before 
him  like  an  awkward  squad,  and  there's  noth 
ing  more  awkward  than  some  facts  that  have 
to  stand  out  squarely  in  daylight !  And  he  in 
quires  into  their  ancestry,  makes  them  run  out 
their  tongues,  and  pokes  them  once  or  twice  in 
the  ribs,  to  make  sure  that  they  are  lively  and 
robust  facts  capable  of  making  a  good  fight  for 
their  lives.  He  never  likes  to  see  any  one 
thing  too  large,  as  a  church,  a  party,  a  reform, 
a  new  book,  or  a  new  fashion,  lest  he  see  some 
thing  else  too  small ;  but  will  have  everything, 
as  he  says,  in  true  proportion.  If  he  occasion 
ally  favours  a  little  that  which  is  old,  solid, 
well-placed,  it  is  scarcely  to  be  measured  to 
him  as  a  fault  in  an  age  so  overwhelmed  with 
the  shiny  new. 

He  is  a  fine,  up-standing,  hearty  old  gentle 
man  with  white  hair  and  rosy  cheeks,  and  the 
bright  eyes  of  one  who  has  lived  all  his  life  with 
temperance.  One  incident  I  cannot  resist  tell 
ing,  though  it  has  nothing  directly  to  do  with 
this  story,  but  it  will  let  you  know  what  kind  of 
a  man  my  old  friend  is,  and  when  all  is  said,  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  to  know  about  any  man. 
Not  long  ago  he  was  afflicted  with  a  serious  loss, 
a  loss  that  would  have  crushed  some  men,  but 


56  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

when  I  met  him  not  long  afterward,  though  the 
lines  around  his  eyes  were  grown  deeper,  he 
greeted  me  in  his  old  serene,  courtly  manner. 
When  I  would  have  comforted  him  with  my 
sympathy,  for  I  felt  myself  near  enough  to 
speak  of  his  loss,  h*  replied  calmly: 

"How  can  we  know  whether  a  thing  is  evil 
,  until  we  reach  the  end  of  it  ?  It  may  be  good ! " 

One  of  the  events  I  esteem  among  the  finest 
of  the  whole  year  is  my  old  friend's  birthday 
party.  Every  winter,  on  the  twenty-sixth  of 
February,  a  party  of  his  friends  drop  in  to  see 
him.  Some  of  us  go  out  of  habit,  drawn  by  our 
affection  for  the  old  gentleman ;  others,  I  think, 
he  invites,  for  he  knows  to  perfection  the  deli 
cate  shadings  of  companionship  which  divide 
those  who  come  unbidden  from  those,  not  less 
loved  but  shyer,  who  must  be  summoned. 

Now  this  birthday  gathering  has  one  historic 
ceremony  which  none  of  us  would  miss,  be 
cause  it  expresses  so  completely  the  essence  of 
our  friend's  generous  and  tolerant,  but  just, 
nature.  He  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  temperate 
man,  and  dislikes  as  much  as  any  one  I  know 
the  whole  alcohol  business;  but  living  in  a 
community  where  the  struggle  for  temperance 
has  often  been  waged  intemperately,  and 


THE  GREEN  PEOPLE  57 

where  there  is  a  lurking  belief  that  cudgelling 
laws  can  make  men  virtuous,  he  publishes 
abroad  once  a  year  his  declaration  of  independ 
ence. 

After  we  have  been  with  our  friend  for  an 
hour  or  so,  and  are  well  warmed  and  happy 
with  the  occasion,  he  rises  solemnly  and  goes 
to  the  toby-closet  at  the  end  of  his  generous 
fireplace,  where  the  apple-log  specially  cut  for 
the  occasion  is  burning  merrily,  and  as  we  all 
fall  silent,  knowing  well  what  is  coming,  he  un 
locks  the  door  and  takes  from  the  shelf  a  bottle 
of  old  peach  brandy  which,  having  uncorked, 
he  gravely  smells  of  and  possibly  lets  his 
nearest  neighbour  smell  of  too.  Then  he 
brings  from  the  sideboard  a  server  set  with 
diminutive  glasses  that  have  been  polished 
until  they  shine  for  the  great  occasion,  and, 
having  filled  them  all  with  the  ripe  liquor,  he 
passes  them  around  to  each  of  us.  We  have  all 
risen  and  are  becomingly  solemn  as  he  now 
proposes  the  toast  of  the  year — and  it  is  always 
the  same  toast : 

"Here's  to  moderation — in  all  things !" 
He  takes  a  sip  or  two,  and  continues: 
"Here's  to  temperance — the  queen  of  the 
virtues/* 


58  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

So  we  all  drink  off  our  glasses.  Our  mellow 
old  friend  smacks  his  lips,  corks  the  tall  bottle, 
and  returns  it  to  his  toby-closet,  where  it  re 
poses  undisturbed  for  another  year. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  he  says,  heartily, 
"let  us  go  in  to  dinner."  .  .  . 

As  I  think  of  it,  now  that  it  is  written,  this 
story  bears  no  very  close  relationship  to  my 
original  subject,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  follow 
naturally  enough  as  I  set  it  down,  and  to  be 
long  with  the  simple  and  well-flavoured  things 
of  the  garden  and  fields ;  and  recalling  the  ad 
vice  of  Cobbett  to  his  nephew  on  the  art  of 
writing,  "never  to  alter  a  thought,  for  that 
which  has  come  of  itself  into  your  mind  is 
likely  to  pass  into  that  of  another  more  readily 
and  with  more  effect  than  anything  which  you 
can  by  reflection  invent,"  I  leave  it  here  just 
as  I  wrote  it,  hoping  that  the  kinship  of  my 
genial  old  friend  with  simple  and  natural  and 
temperate  things  may  plainly  appear. 


CHAPTER  V 

PLACES  OF  RETIREMENT 

"Good  God!  how  sweet  are  all  things  here! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie! 
Lord!  what  good  hours  do  we  keep! 
How  quietly  we  sleep! " 

CHARLES  COTTON  (a  friend  of 
Izaak  Walton) 

April  2gth. 

I  HAVE  been  spending  a  Sunday  of  retire 
ment  in  the  woods.     I  came  out  with  a 
strange,  deep  sense  of  depression,  and  though  I 
knew  it  was  myself  and  not  the  world  that  was 
sad,  yet  I  could  not  put  it  away  from  me. 

59 


60  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

.  .  .  As  I  write,  the  wood  seems  full  of 
voices,  the  little  rustling  of  leaves,  the  minute 
sounds  of  twigs  chafing  together,  the  cry  of 
frogs  from  the  swamp  so  steady  and  monoto 
nous  that  it  scarcely  arrests  attention.  Of 
odours,  a-plenty !  Just  behind  me,  so  that  by 
turning  my  head  I  can  see  into  their  cool  green 
depths,  are  a  number  of  hemlock  trees,  the 
breath  of  which  is  incalculably  sweet.  All  the 
earth — the  very  earth  itself — has  a  good  rich 
growing  odour,  pleasant  to  smell. 

These  things  have  been  here  a  thousand 
years — a  million  years — and  yet  they  are  not 
stale,'  but  are  ever  fresh,  ever  serene,  ever 
here  to  loosen  one's  crabbed  spirit  and  make 
one  quietly  happy.  It  seems  to  me  I  could 
not  live  if  it  were  not  possible  often  to  come 
thus  alone  to  the  woods. 

.  .  .  On  later  walking  I  discover  that 
here  and  there  on  warm  southern  slopes  the 
dog-tooth  violet  is  really  in  bloom,  and  worlds 
of  hepatica,  both  lavender  and  white,  among 
the  brown  leaves.  One  of  the  notable  sights 
of  the  hillsides  at  this  time  of  the  year  is  the 
striped  maple,  the  long  wands  rising  straight 
and  chaste  among  thickets  of  less-striking 
young  birches  and  chestnuts,  and  having  a 


PLACES  OF  RETIREMENT  61 

bud  of  a  delicate  pink — a  marvel  of  minute 
beauty.  A  little  trailing  arbutus  I  found  and 
renewed  my  joy  with  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
odours  of  all  the  spring;  Solomon's  seal 
thrusting  up  vivid  green  cornucopias  from  the 
lifeless  earth,  and  often  near  a  root  or  stone  the 
red  partridge  berries  among  their  bright  leaves. 
The  laurel  on  the  hills  is  sharply  visible, 
especially  when  among  deciduous  trees,  and 
along  the  old  brown  roads  are  patches  of 
fresh  wintergreen.  In  a  cleft  of  the  hills  near 
the  top  of  Norwottuck,  though  the  day  is 
warm,  I  found  a  huge  snowbank — the  last 
held  trench  of  old  winter,  the  last  guerilla 
of  the  cold,  driven  to  the  fastnesses  of  the  hills. 
I  have  enjoyed  this  day  without 
trying.  After  the  first  hour  or  so  of  it  all  the 
worries  dropped  away,  all  the  ambitions,  all 

the  twisted  thoughts 

It  is  strange  how  much  thrilling  joy  there 
is  in  the  discovery  of  the  ages-old  miracle  of 
returning  life  in  the  woods:  each  green  ad 
venturer,  each  fragrant  joy,  each  bird-call — 
and  the  feel  of  the  soft,  warm  sunshine  upon 
one's  back  after  months  of  winter.  On  any 
terms  life  is  good.  The  only  woe,  the  only 
Great  Woe,  is  the  woe  of  never  having  been 


62  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

born.  Sorrow,  yes ;  failure,  yes ;  weakness,  yes ; 
the  sad  loss  of  dear  friends — yes !  But  oh,  the 
good  God:  I  still  live! 

Being  alone  without  feeling  alone  is  one  of 
the  great  experiences  of  life,  and  he  who 
practises  it  has  acquired  an  infinitely  valuable 
possession.  People  fly  to  crowds  for  happiness, 
not  knowing  that  all  the  happiness  they  find 
there  they  must  take  with  them.  Thus  they 
divert  and  distract  that  within  them  which 
creates  power  and  joy,  until  by  flying  always 
away  from  themselves,  seeking  satisfaction 
from  without  rather  than  from  within,  they 
become  infinitely  boresome  to  themselves,  so 
that  they  can  scarcely  bear  a  moment  of  their 
own  society. 

But  if  once  a  man  have  a  taste  of  true  and 
happy  retirement,  though  it  be  but  a  short 
hour,  or  day,  now  and  then,  he  has  found,  or 
is  beginning  to  find,  a  sure  place  of  refuge,  of 
blessed  renewal,  toward  which  in  the  busiest 
hours  he  will  find  his  thoughts  wistfully  steal 
ing.  How  stoutly  will  he  meet  the  buffets  of 
the  world  if  he  knows  he  has  such  a  place  of  re 
tirement  where  all  is  well-ordered  and  full  of 
beauty,  and  right  counsels  prevail,  and  true 
things  are  noted. 


PLACES  OF  RETIREMENT          63 

As  a  man  grows  older,  if  he  cultivate  the  art 
of  retirement,  not  indeed  as  an  end  in  itself, 
but  as  a  means  of  developing  a  richer  and  freer 
life,  he  will  find  his  reward  growing  surer  and 
greater  until  in  time  none  of  the  storms  or 
shocks  of  life  any  longer  disturbs  him.  He 
might  in  time  even  reach  the  height  attained  by 
Diogenes,  of  whom  Epictetus  said,  "It  was  not 
possible  for  any  man  to  approach  him,  nor  had 
any  man  the  means  of  laying  hold  upon  him  to 
enslave  him.  He  had  everything  easily  loosed, 
everything  only  hanging  to  him.  If  you  laid 
hold  of  his  property,  he  would  rather  have  let 
it  go  and  be  yours  than  he  would  have  fol 
lowed  you  for  it ;  if  you  laid  hold  of  his  leg  he 
would  have  let  go  his  leg:  if  all  of  his  body,  all 
his  poor  body;  his  intimates,  friends,  country, 
just  the  same.  For  he  knew  from  whence  he  had 
them,  and  from  whom  and  on  what  conditions." 

The  best  partners  of  solitude  are  books.  I 
like  to  take  a  book  with  me  in  my  pocket,  al 
though  I  find  the  world  so  full  of  interesting 
things — sights,  sounds,  odours — that  often  I 
never  read  a  word  in  it.  It  is  like  having  a 
valued  friend  with  you,  though  you  walk  for 
miles  without  saying  a  word  to  him  or  he  to 
you:  but  if  you  really  know  your  friend,  it  is  a 


64  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

curious  thing  how,  subconsciously,  you  are 
aware  of  what  he  is  thinking  and  feeling  about 
this  hillside  or  that  distant  view.  And  so  it  is 
with  books.  It  is  enough  to  have  this  writer  in 
your  pocket,  for  the  very  thought  of  him  and 
what  he  would  say  to  these  old  fields  and 
pleasant  trees  is  ever  freshly  delightful.  And 
he  never  interrupts  at  inconvenient  moments, 
nor  intrudes  his  thoughts  upon  yours  unless 
you  desire  it. 

I  do  not  want  long  books  and  least  of  all 
story  books  in  the  woods — these  are  for  the 
library — but  rather  scraps  and  extracts  and 
condensations  from  which  thoughts  can  be 
plucked  like  flowers  and  carried  for  a  while  in 
the  buttonhole.  So  it  is  that  I  am  fond  of  all 
kinds  of  anthologies.  I  have  one  entitled 
"Traveller's  Joy,"  another,  "Songs  of  Na 
ture,"  and  I  have  lately  found  the  best  one  I 
know  called  "The  Spirit  of  Man"  by  Robert 
Bridges,  the  English  laureate.  Other  little 
books  that  fit  well  in  the  pocket  on  a  tramp,  be 
cause  they  are  truly  companionable,  are  Ben 
Jonson's  "Timber,"  one  of  the  very  best,  and 
William  Penn's  "Fruits  of  Solitude."  An 
anthology  of  Elizabethan  verse,  given  me  by  a 
friend,  is  also  a  good  companion. 


PLACES  OF  RETIREMENT  65 

It  is  not  a  discourse  or  a  narrative  we  want 
as  we  walk  abroad,  but  conversation.  Neither 
do  we  want  people  or  facts  or  stones,  but  a 
person.  So  I  open  one  of  these  little  books  and 
read  therein  the  thoughtful  remark  of  a  wise 
companion.  This  I  may  reply  to,  or  merely 
enjoy,  as  I  please.  I  am  in  no  hurry,  as  I 
might  be  with  a  living  companion,  for  my 
book  friend,  being  long  dead,  is  not  impatient 
and  gives  me  time  to  reply,  and  is  not  resentful 
if  I  make  no  reply  at  all.  Submitted  to  such 
a  test  as  this  few  writers,  old  or  new,  give  con 
tinued  profit  or  delight.  To  be  considered  in 
the  presence  of  the  great  and  simple  things  of 
nature,  or  worn  long  in  the  warm  places  of  the 
spirit,  a  writer  must  have  supreme  qualities 
of  sense  or  humour,  a  great  sensitiveness  to 
beauty,  or  a  genuine  love  of  goodness — but 
above  all  he  must  somehow  give  us  the  flavour 
of  personality.  He  must  be  a  true  companion 
of  the  spirit. 

There  is  an  exercise  given  to  young  soldiers 
which  consists  in  raising  the  hands  slowly 
above  the  head,  taking  in  a  full  breath  at  the 
same  time,  and  then  letting  them  down  in  such 
a  way  as  to  square  the  shoulders.  This  leaves 


66  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

the  body  erect,  the  head  high,  the  eyes 
straight  ahead,  the  lungs  full  of  good  air.  It  is 
the  attitude  that  every  man  at  arms  should 
wish  to  take.  After  a  day  in  the  woods  I  feel 
some  such  erectness  of  spirit,  a  lift  of  the  head, 
and  a  clearer  and  calmer  vision,  for  I  have 
raised  up  my  hands  to  the  heavens,  and  drawn 
in  the  odours  and  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
good  earth. 

One  of  the  great  joys  of  such  times  of  retire 
ment — perhaps  the  greatest  of  the  joys — is  the 
return,  freshened  and  sweetened,  to  the  com 
mon  life.  How  good  then  appear  the  things  of 
the  garden  and  farm,  the  house  and  shop,  that 
weariness  had  staled;  how  good  the  faces  of 
friends. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NO   TRESPASS 

I  LIVE  in  a  country  of  beautiful  hills,  and  in 
the  last  few  years,  since  I  have  been  here 
with  Harriet,  I  have  made  familiar  and  pleas 
ant  acquaintance  with  several  of  them.  .  .  . 
One  hill  I  know  is  precious  to  me  for  a  pe 
culiar  reason.  Upon  the  side  of  it,  along  the 
town  road,  are  two  or  three  old  farms  with 
lilacs  like  trees  about  their  doorways,  and 
ancient  apple  orchards  with  great  gnarly 
branches,  and  one  has  an  old  garden  of  holly 
hocks,  larkspurs,  zinnias,  mignonette,  and  I 
know  not  how  many  other  old-fashioned  flow 
ers.  Wild  grapes  there  are  along  the  neglected 

67 


68  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

walls,  and  in  a  corner  of  one  of  them,  by  a 
brook,  a  mass  of  sweet  currant  which  in  blos 
som  time  makes  all  that  bit  of  valley  a  bower  of 
fragrance.  I  have  gone  that  way  often  in 
spring  for  the  sheer  joy  of  the  friendly  odours 
I  had  across  the  ancient  stone  fences. 

The  largest  and  stoniest  of  the  farms  is 
owned  by  an  old  man  named  Howieson.  A 
strange,  brown-clad,  crooked,  crabbed  old 
man,  I  have  seen  him  often  creeping  across  his 
fields  with  his  horses.  An  ineffective  worker 
all  his  life  long,  he  has  scarcely  made  a  living 
from  his  stony  acres.  His  farm  is  tipped  up 
behind  upon  the  hill  and  runs  below  to  the 
brook,  and  the  buildings  are  old  and  worn,  and 
a  rocky  road  goes  by  to  the  town.  Once,  in 
more  prosperous  days,  before  the  factories 
took  over  the  winter  work  of  these  hill  farms, 
the  busy  families  finished  shoes,  and  wove  cloth, 
and  plaited  straw  hats — and  one  I  know  was 
famous  for  wooden  bowls  craftily  hollowed 
out  of  maple  knots — and  the  hill  people  relied 
upon  their  stony  fields  for  little  more  than  their 
food.  But  in  these  later  days,  the  farm  indus 
tries  are  gone,  the  houses  are  no  longer  over 
flowing  with  children,  for  there  is  nothing  for 
children  to  do,  and  those  who  remain  are  old  or 


NO  TRESPASS  69 

discouraged.  Some  homes  have  entirely  dis 
appeared,  so  that  all  that  remains  is  a  clump  of 
lilacs  or  a  wild  tangle  of  rose  bushes  about  a 
grass-covered  or  bush-grown  cellar  wall.  The 
last  thing  to  disappear  is  not  that  which  the  old 
farmers  most  set  their  hearts  upon,  their  fine 
houses  and  barns  or  their  cultivated  fields,  but 
the  one  touch  of  beauty  they  left — lilac  clump 
or  rose-tangle. 

Old  Howieson,  with  that  passion  for  the 
sense  of  possession  which  thrives  best  when  the 
realities  of  possession  are  slipping  away,  has 
posted  all  his  fields  with  warnings  against 
intrusion.  You  may  not  enter  this  old  field, 
nor  walk  by  this  brook,  nor  climb  this  hill,  for 
all  this  belongs,  in  fee  simple,  to  James  Howie- 
son! 


NO  TRESPASS 

JAMES    HOWIESON 


For  a  long  time  I  did  not  meet  James  Howie- 
son  face  to  face,  though  I  had  often  seen  his 
signs,  and  always  with  a  curious  sense  of  the 
futility  of  them.  I  did  not  need  to  enter  his 


70  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

fields,  nor  climb  his  hill,  nor  walk  by  his  brook; 
but  as  the  springs  passed  and  the  autumns 
whitened  into  winter,  I  came  into  more  and 
more  complete  possession  of  all  those  fields 
that  he  so  jealously  posted.  I  looked  with 
strange  joy  upon  his  hill,  saw  April  blossom  in 
his  orchard,  and  May  colour  the  wild  grape 
leaves  along  his  walls.  June  I  smelled  in  the 
sweet  vernal  of  his  hay  fields,  and  from  the 
October  of  his  maples  and  beeches  I  gathered 
rich  crops — and  put  up  no  hostile  signs  of  owner 
ship,  paid  no  taxes,  worried  over  no  mortgage, 
and  often  marvelled  that  he  should  be  so  poor 
within  his  posted  domain  and  I  so  rich  without. 
One  who  loves  a  hill,  or  a  bit  of  valley,  will 
experiment  long  until  he  finds  the  best  spot  to 
take  his  joy  of  it ;  and  this  is  no  more  than  the 
farmer  himself  does  when  he  experiments  year 
after  year  to  find  the  best  acres  for  his  po 
tatoes,  his  corn,  his  oats,  his  hay.  Intensive 
cultivation  is  as  important  in  these  wider  fields 
of  the  spirit  as  in  any  other.  If  I  consider  the 
things  that  I  hear  and  see  and  smell,  and  the 
thoughts  that  go  with  them  or  grow  out  of 
them,  as  really  valuable  possessions,  con 
tributing  to  the  wealth  of  life,  I  cannot  see 
why  I  should  not  willingly  give  to  them  a 


NO  TRESPASS  71 

tenth  or  a  hundredth  part  of  the  energy  and 
thought  I  give  to  my  potatoes  or  my  black 
berries  or  to  the  writing  I  do. 

I  chose  a  place  in  a  field  just  below  Old  How- 
ieson's  farm,  where  there  is  a  thorn-apple  tree 
to  sit  or  lie  under.  From  the  thorn-apple  tree, 
by  turning  my  head  in  one  direction,  I  can 
look  up  at  the  crown  of  the  hill  with  its  green 
hood  of  oaks  and  maples  and  chestnuts,  and 
high  above  it  I  can  see  the  clouds  floating  in 
the  deep  sky,  or,  if  I  turn  my  head  the  other 
way,  for  I  am  a  kind  of  monarch  there  on  the 
hill  and  command  the  world  to  delight  me,  I 
can  look  off  across  the  pleasant  valley  with 
its  spreading  fields  and  farmsteads  set  about 
with  trees,  and  the  town  slumbering  by  the 
riverside.  I  come  often  with  a  little  book  in 
one  pocket  to  read  from,  and  a  little  book  in 
the  other  to  write  in,  but  I  rarely  use  either  the 
one  or  the  other,  for  there  is  far  too  much  to  see 
and  think  about. 

From  this  spot  I  make  excursions  round 
about,  and  have  had  many  strange  and  inter 
esting  adventures:  and  now  find  thoughts  of 
mine,  like  lichens,  upon  all  the  boulders  and 
old  walls  and  oak  trees  of  that  hillside.  Some 
times  I  climb  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  If  I  am  in  a 


72 

leisurely  mood  I  walk  lawfully  around  Old 
Howieson's  farm  by  a  kind  of  wood  lane  that 
leads  to  the  summit,  but  often  I  cross  his  walls, 


It  was  on  one  of  these  lawless  excursions  in  Old  Howieson's 
field  that  I  first  saw  that  strange  old  fellow 


NO  TRESPASS  ^73 

all  regardless  of  his  trespass  signs,  and  go  that 
way  to  the  top.  •; 

It  was  on  one  of  these  lawless  excursions  in 
Old  Howieson's  field  that  I  first  saw  that 
strange  old  fellow  who  is  known  hereabout  as 
the  Herbman.  I  came  upon  him  so  suddenly 
that  I  stopped  short,  curiously  startled,  as  one 
is  startled  at  finding  anything  human  that 
seems  less  than  human.  He  was  kneeling  there 
among  the  low  verdure  of  a  shallow  valley,  and 
looked  like  an  old  gray  rock  or  some  prehistoric 
animal.  I  stopped  to  look  at  him,  but  he  paid 
no  heed,  and  seemed  only  to  shrink  into  him 
self  as  though,  if  he  kept  silent,  he  might  be 
taken  for  stock  or  stone.  I  addressed  him,  but 
he  made  no  answer.  I  went  nearer,  with  a  sen 
sation  of  uncanny  wonder;  but  he  did  not  so 
much  as  glance  up  at  me,  though  he  knew  I 
was  there.  His  old  brown  basket  was  near 
him  and  the  cane  beside  it.  He  was  gathering 
pennyroyal. 

"Another  man  who  is  taking  an  unexpected 
crop  from  Old  Howieson's  acres,"  I  thought  to 
myself. 

I  watched  him  for  some  moments,  quite  still, 
as  one  might  watch  a  turtle  or  a  woodchuck — 
and  left  him  there. 


74  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

Since  then  I  have  heard  something  about 
him,  and  seen  him  once  or  twice.  A  strange 
old  man,  a  wanderer  upon  the  face  of  the  fra 
grant  earth.  Spring  and  summer  he  wears 
always  an  old  overcoat,  and  carries  a  basket 
with  double  covers,  very  much  worn  and 
brown  with  usage.  His  cane  is  of  hickory  with 
a  crooked  root  for  a  handle,  this  also  shiny 
with  age.  He  gathers  bitter-bark,  tansy,  gin 
seng,  calamus,  smartweed,  and  slippery  elm, 
and  from  along  old  fences  and  barnyards,  cat 
nip  and  boneset.  I  suppose  he  lives  some 
where,  a  hole  in  a  log,  or  the  limb  of  a  tree,  but 
no  one  knows  where  it  is,  or  how  he  dries  or 
cures  his  findings.  No  one  knows  his  name: 
perhaps  he  has  forgotten  it  himself.  A  name 
is  no  great  matter  anyway.  He  is  called  simply 
the  Herbman.  He  drifts  into  our  valley  in  the 
spring,  is  seen  here  and  there  on  the  hills  or  in 
the  fields,  like  the  crows  or  the  blackbirds,  and 
disappears  in  the  fall  with  the  robins  and  the 
maple  leaves.  Perhaps  he  is  one  of  those 
favoured  souls  to  whom  life  is  all  spring  and 
summer. 

The  age  has  passed  him  by,  and  except  for 
certain  furtive  old  women,  few  care  now  for  his 
sovereign  remedies. 


NO  TRESPASS  75 

I  met  him  once  in  the  town  road,  and  he 
stopped  humbly  without  lifting  his  eyes,  and 
opening  his  basket  let  out  into  the  air  such  a 
fragrance  of  ancient  simples  as  I  never  smelled 
before.  He  said  nothing  at  all ;  but  took  out 
dry  bundles  of  catnip,  sassafras,  slippery  elm, 
to  show  me.  He  had  also  pennyroyal  for  heal 
ing  teas,  and  calamus  and  bitter-bark  for 
miseries.  I  selected  a  choice  assortment  of  his 
wares  to  take  home  to  Harriet,  but  could  get 
him  to  name  no  price.  He  took  what  I  gave 
without  objection  and  without  thanks,  and 
went  his  way.  A  true  man  of  the  hills. 

As  I  said,  I  came  often  to  the  field  below  Old 
Howieson's  farm.  I  think  the  old  man  saw  me 
coming  and  going,  for  the  road  winds  along  the 
side  of  the  hill  within  sight  of  his  house,  skirts 
a  bit  of  wood,  and  with  an  unexpected  turn 
comes  out  triumphantly  to  the  top  of  the  ridge 
beyond. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  I  always  disap 
peared,  for  I  crossed  the  wall  into  the  field 
below  Old  Howieson's  farm,  and  mysteriously 
failed  to  appear  to  the  watchful  eye  upon  the 
ridge  beyond.  What  could  be  more  provoking 
or  suspicious !  To  go  in  at  one  end  of  a  well- 
travelled  road  and  not  to  come  out  in  the 


76  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

regular  and  expected  way  at  the  other !  Or  to 
be  suspected  of  not  being  deferential  toward 
trespass  signs,  or  observant  of  closed  ways! 
How  disturbing  to  all  those  who  dwell  tremu 
lously  within  posted  enclosures  of  whatever 
sort,  or  those  who  base  their  sense  of  possession 
upon  stamped  paper,  or  take  their  God  from 
a  book.  Men  have  been  crucified  for  less. 

Sooner  or  later  those  who  cross  boundaries 
clash  with  those  who  defend  boundaries:  and 
those  who  adventure  offend  those  who  seek 
security;  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  came 
face  to  face  with  Old  Man  Howieson. 

This  was  the  way  of  it :  Well  back  of  Howie- 
son's  buildings  and  reaching  upward  upon  the 
face  of  the  hill  stretches  a  long  and  narrow 
field,  a  kind  of  barren  back  pasture  with  bould 
ers  in  it,  and  gnarly  hawthorn  trees,  and  a 
stunted  wild  apple  or  so.  A  stone  fence  runs 
down  one  side  of  the  cleared  land  and  above  it 
rises  the  hill.  It  is  like  a  great  trough  or 
ravine  which  upon  still  spring  evenings  gathers 
in  all  the  varied  odours  of  Old  Howieson's 
farm  and  orchard  and  brings  them  down  to  me 
as  I  sit  in  the  field  below.  I  need  no  book 
then,  nor  sight  of  the  distant  town,  nor  song  of 
birds,  for  I  have  a  singular  and  incomparable 


NO  TRESPASS  77 

album  of  the  good  odours  of  the  hill.  This  is 
one  reason  why  I  chose  this  particular  spot  in 
the  fields  for  my  own,  and  it  has  given  me  a 
secret  name  for  the  place  which  I  will  not  here 
disclose.  If  ever  you  should  come  this  way  in 
May,  my  friend,  I  might  take  you  there  of  an 
evening,  but  could  warrant  you  no  joy  of  it 
that  you  yourself  could  not  take.  But  you 
need  not  come  here,  or  go  there,  but  stop 
where  you  are  at  this  moment,  and  I  here 
assure  you  that  if  you  look  up,  and  look  in, 
you,  also,  will  see  something  of  the  glory  of  the 
world. 

One  evening  I  had  been  upon  the  hill  to  seek 
again  the  pattern  and  dimensions  of  my  taber 
nacle,  and  to  receive  anew  the  tables  of  the 
law.  I  had  crossed  Old  Howieson's  field  so 
often  that  I  had  almost  forgotten  it  was  not 
my  own.  It  was  indeed  mine  by  the  same  in 
alienable  right  that  it  belonged  to  the  crows 
that  flew  across  it,  or  to  the  partridges  that 
nested  in  its  coverts,  or  the  woodchucks  that 
lived  in  its  walls,  or  the  squirrels  in  its  chestnut 
trees.  It  was  mine  by  the  final  test  of  all  pos 
session — that  I  could  use  it. 

He  came  out  of  a  thicket  of  hemlocks  like  a 
wraith  of  the  past,  a  gray  and  crabbed  figure, 


78  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

and  confronted  me  there  in  the  wide  field.  I 
suppose  he  thought  he  had  caught  me  at  last. 
I  was  not  at  all  startled  or  even  surprised,  for 
as  I  look  back  upon  it  now  I  know  that  I  had 
always  been  expecting  him.  Indeed,  I  felt 
a  lift  of  the  spirit,  the  kind  of  jauntiness  with 
which  one  meets  a  crucial  adventure. 

He  stood  there  for  a  moment  quite  silent,  a 
grim  figure  of  denial,  and  I  facing  him. 

"You  are  on  my  land,  sir,"  he  said. 

I  answered  him  instantly  and  in  a  way 
wholly  unexpected  to  myself: 

"You  are  breathing  my  air,  sir." 

He  looked  at  me  dully,  but  with  a  curious 
glint  of  fear  in  his  eye,  fear  and  anger, 
too. 

"Did  you  see  the  sign  down  there?  This 
land  is  posted." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  have  seen  your  signs.  But 
let  me  ask  you :  If  I  were  not  here  would  you 
own  this  land  any  more  than  you  do  now? 
Would  it  yield  you  any  better  crops?" 

It  is  never  the  way  of  those  who  live  in 
posted  enclosures,  of  whatever  sort,  to  reason. 
They  assert. 

"This  land  is  posted,"  said  the  old  man 
doggedly. 


NO  TRESPASS  79 

"Are  you  sure  you  own  it ?"  I  asked.  "Is  it 
really  yours  ? " 

"My  father  owned  this  farm  before  me,"  he 
said,  "and  my  grandfather  cleared  this  field 
and  built  these  walls.  I  was  born  in  that  house 
and  have  lived  there  all  my  life." 

"Well,  then,  I  must  be  going — and  I  will 
not  come  here  again,"  I  said.  "I  am  sorry  I 
walked  on  your  land J 

I  started  to  go  down  the  hill,  but  stopped, 
and  said,  as  though  it  were  an  afterthought : 

"I  have  made  some  wonderful  discoveries 
upon  your  land,  and  that  hill  there.  You  don't 
seem  to  know  how  valuable  this  field  is.  ... 
Good-bye." 

With  that  I  took  two  or  three  steps  down  the 
hill — but  felt  the  old  man's  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Say,  mister,"  he  asked,  "are  you  one  of  the 
electric  company  men?  Is  that  high-tension 
line  comin'  across  here?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "it  is  something  more  valuable 
than  that!" 

I  walked  onward  a  few  steps,  as  though  I 
was  quite  determined  to  get  out  of  his  field,  but 
he  followed  close  behind  me. 

"It  ain't  the  new  trolley  line,  is  it?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "it  isn't  the  trolley  line." 


8o  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

In  that  question,  eager  and  shrill,  spoke  the 
dry  soul  of  the  old  man,  the  lifelong  hope  that 
his  clinging  ownership  of  those  barren  acres 
would  bring  him  from  the  outside  some  mi 
raculous  profit. 

His  whole  bearing  had  changed.  He  had 
ceased  to  be  truculent  or  even  fearful,  but  was 
now  shrilly  beseeching.  A  great  wave  of  com 
passion  came  over  me.  I  was  sorry  for  him, 
imprisoned  there  within  the  walls  of  his  own 
making,  and  expecting  wealth  from  the  out 
side  when  there  was  wealth  in  plenty  within 
and  everywhere  about  him. 
i  But  how  could  I  help  him  ?  You  can  give  no 
valuable  thing  to  any  man  who  has  not  the 
,  vision  to  take  it.  If  I  had  told  him  what  I 
found  upon  his  hill  or  in  his  fields  he  would 
have  thought  me — well,  crazy;  or  he  would 
have  suspected  that  under  cover  of  such  a 
quest  I  hid  some  evil  design.  As  well  talk 
adventure  to  an  old  party  man,  or  growth  to  a 
set  churchman. 

So  I  left  him  there  within  his  walls.  So  often 
when  we  think  we  are  barring  other  people  out, 
we  are  only  barring  ourselves  in.  The  last  I 
saw  of  him  as  I  turned  into  the  road  was  a  gray 


NO  TRESPASS  Si 

and  crabbed  figure  standing  alone,  looking 
after  me,  and  not  far  off  his  own  sign : 


NO  TRESPASS 

JAMES  HOWIESON 


Sometime,  I  thought,  this  old  farm  will  be 
owned  by  a  man  who  is  also  capable  of  possess 
ing  it.  More  than  one  such  place  I  know 
already  has  been  taken  by  those  who  value  the 
beauty  of  the  hills  and  the  old  walls,  and  the 
boulder-strewn  fields.  One  I  know  is  really 
possessed  by  a  man  who  long  ago  had  a  vision 
of  sheep  feeding  on  fields  too  infertile  to  pro 
duce  profitable  crops,  and  many  others  have 
been  taken  by  men  who  saw  forests  growing 
where  forests  ought  to  grow.  For  real  posses 
sion  is  not  a  thing  of  inheritance  or  of  docu 
ments,  but  of  the  spirit;  and  passes  by  vision 
and  imagination.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the  tres 
pass  signs  stand  long — so  long  that  we  grow 
impatient — but  nature  is  in  no  hurry.  Nature 
waits,  and  presently  the  trespass  signs  rot 
away,  one  arm  falls  off,  and  lo!  where  the  ad 
venturer  found  only  denial  before  he  is  now 


82  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

invited  to — "pass."  The  old  walls  are  con 
quered  by  the  wild  cherries  and  purple  ivy  and 
blackberry  bushes,  and  the  old  Howiesons 
sleep  in  calm  forgetfulness  of  their  rights  upon 
the  hills  they  thought  they  possessed,  and  all 
that  is  left  is  a  touch  of  beauty — lilac  clump 
and  wild-rose  tangle. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD! 

"Give  me  to  struggle  with  weather  and,  wind; 

Give  me  to  stride  through  the  snow; 
Give  me  the  feel  of  the  chill  on  my  cheeks, 
And  the  glow  and  the  glory  within ! " 

March  ijth. 

THE  joy  of  winter:  the  downright  joy  of 
winter !  I  tramped  to-day  through  miles 
of  open,  snow-clad  country.  I  slipped  in  the 
ruts  of  the  roads  or  ploughed  through  the  drifts 
in  the  fields  with  such  a  sense  of  adventure  as 
I  cannot  describe. 

Day  before  yesterday  we  had  a  heavy  north 
wind  with  stinging  gusts  of  snow.     Yesterday 

83 


84  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

fell  bright  and  cold  with  snow  lying  fine  and 
crumbly  like  sugar.  To  the  east  of  the  house 
where  I  shovelled  a  path  the  heaps  are  nearly 
as  high  as  my  shoulder.  .  . 

This  perfect  morning  a  faint  purplish  haze  is 
upon  all  the  hills,  with  bright  sunshine  and  still, 
cold  air  through  which  the  chimney  smoke 
rises  straight  upward.  Hungry  crows  flap 
across  the  fields,  or  with  unaccustomed  daring 
settle  close  in  upon  the  manure  heaps  around 
the  barns.  All  the  hillsides  glisten  and 
sparkle  like  cloth  of  gold,  each  glass  knob 
on  the  telephone  poles  is  like  a  resplendent 
jewel,  and  the  long  morning  shadows  of  the 
trees  lie  blue  upon  the  snow.  Horses'  feet 
crunch  upon  the  road  as  the  early  farmers  go 
by  with  milk  for  the  creamery — the  frosty 
breath  of  each  driver  fluttering  aside  like  a 
white  scarf.  Through  the  still  air  ordinary 
voices  cut  sharply  and  clearly,  and  a  laugh 
bounds  out  across  the  open  country  with  a 
kind  of  superabundance  of  joy.  I  see  two  men 
beating  theirarms  as  they  follow  their  wood  sled. 
They  are  bantering  one  another  noisily.  I  see 
a  man  shovelling  snow  from  his  barn  doors;  as 
each  shovelful  rises  and  scatters,  the  sun  catches 
it  for  an  instant  and  it  falls,  a  silvery  shower. 


LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD!  85 

I  tramped  to-day  through  miles  of 
it:  and  whether  in  broken  roads  or  spotless 
fields,  had  great  joy  of  it.  It  was  good  to  stride 
through  opposing  drifts  and  to  catch  the  ting 
ling  air  upon  one's  face.  The  spring  is  beauti 
ful  indeed,  and  one  is  happy  at  autumn,  but  of 
all  the  year  no  other  mornings  set  the  blood  to 
racing  like  these ;  none  gives  a  greater  sense  of 
youth,  strength,  or  of  the  general  goodness  of 
the  earth. 

Give  me  the  winter:  give  me  the  winter! 
Not  all  winter,  but  just  winter  enough,  just 
what  nature  sends. 

.  .  .  Dry  air  in  the  throat  so  cold  at  first 
as  to  make  one  cough;  and  dry,  sharp,  tingling 
air  in  the  nostrils ;  frost  on  beard  and  eyebrows; 
cheeks  red  and  crusty,  so  that  to  wrinkle  them 
hurts:  but  all  the  body  within  aglow  with 
warmth  and  health.  Twice  the  ordinary  ozone 
in  the  air,  so  that  one  wishes  to  whistle  or 
sing,  and  if  the  fingers  grow  chill,  what  are 
shoulders  for  but  to  beat  them  around ! 

It  is  a  strange  and  yet  familiar  experience 
how  all  things  present  their  opposites.  Do  you 
enjoy  the  winter?  Your  neighbour  loathes  or 
fears  it.  Do  you  enjoy  life  ?  To  your  friend  it 


86  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

is  a  sorrow  and  a  heaviness.  Even  to  you  it  is 
not  always  alike.  Though  the  world  itself  is 
the  same  to-day  as  it  was  yesterday  and  will  be 
to-morrow — the  same  snowy  fields  and  polar 
hills,  the  same  wintry  stars,  the  same  infinitely 
alluring  variety  of  people — yet  to-day  you, 
that  were  a  god,  have  become  a  grieving 
child. 

Even  at  moments  when  we  are  well  pleased 
with  the  earth  we  often  have  a  wistful  feeling 
that  we  should  conceal  it  lest  it  hurt  those 
borne  down  by  circumstances  too  great  or  too 
sad  for  them.  What  is  there  to  offer  one  who 
cannot  respond  gladly  to  the  beauty  of  the 
fields,  or  opens  his  heart  widely  to  the  beckon 
ing  of  friends  ?  And  we  ask  ourselves :  Have 
I  been  tried  as  this  man  has?  Would  I  be 
happy  then?  Have  I  been  wrung  with 
sorrow,  worn  down  by  ill-health,  buffeted  with 
injustice  as  this  man  has  ?  Would  I  be  happy 
then  ? 

I  saw  on  my  walk  to-day  an  old  woman  with  a 
crossed  shawl  upon  her  breast  creeping  out  pain 
fully  to  feed  her  hens.  She  lives  on  a  small,  ill- 
kept  farm  I  have  known  for  years.  She  is  old  and 
poor  and  asthmatic,  and  the  cold  bites  through 
her  with  the  sharpness  of  knives.  The  path  to 


LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD!  87 

the  hen-house  is  a  kind  of  via  dolorosa,  a  terror 
of  slipperiness  and  cold.  She  might  avoid  it :  her 
son,  worthless  as  he  is,  might  do  it  for  her,  but 
she  clings  to  it  as  she  clings  to  her  life.  It  is 
the  last  reason  for  staying  here!  But  the 
white  fields  and  drifted  roads  are  never  joy 
fully  met,  never  desired.  She  spends  half  the 
summer  dreading  the  return  of  winter  from  the 
severities  of  which  she  cannot  escape. 

Nor  is  it  all  mere  poverty,  though  she  is 
poor,  for  there  are  those  who  would  help  to 
send  her  away,  but  she  will  not  go.  She  is 
wrapped  about  with  Old  Terrors,  Ancient 
Tyrannies — that  Terror  of  the  Unknown 
which  is  more  painful  even  than  the  Terror  of 
the  Known :  those  Tyrannies  of  Habit  and  of 
Place  which  so  often  and  so  ruthlessly  rule  the 
lives  of  the  old.  She  clings  desperately  to  the 
few  people  she  knows  ("'tis  hard  to  die  among 
strangers!")  and  the  customs  she  has  followed 
all  her  life.  Against  the  stark  power  of  her 
tragic  helplessness  neither  the  good  nor  the 
great  of  the  earth  may  prevail.  This  reality 
too  .  .  . 

I  had  a  curious  experience  not  long  ago: 
one  of  those  experiences  which  light  up  as  in  a 


88  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

flash  some  of  the  fundamental  things  of  life. 
I  met  a  man  in  the  town  road  whom  I  have 
come  to  know  rather  more  than  slightly.  He  is 
a  man  of  education  and  has  been  "well-off" 
in  the  country  sense — is  still,  so  far  as  I  know 
—but  he  has  a  sardonic  outlook  upon  life.  He 
is  discouraged  about  human  nature.  Thinks 
that  politics  are  rotten,  and  that  the  prices  of 
potatoes  and  bread  are  disgraceful.  The  state 
of  the  nation — and  of  the  world — is  quite  be 
yond  temperate  expression.  Few  rays  of  joy 
seem  to  illuminate  his  pathway. 

As  we  approached  in  the  town  road  I  called 
out  to  him: 

"Good  morning." 

He  paused  and,  to  my  surprise,  responded : 

"Are  you  happy?" 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  for  some  time 
whether  I  was  happy  or  not,  so  I  replied: 

"I  don't  know;  why  do  you  ask?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  questioning,  and  I 
thought  rather  indignant,  way. 

"Why  shouldn't  a  man  be  happy?"  I 
pressed  him. 

"Why  should  he  be?  Answer  me  that!"  he 
responded.  "Why  should  he  be  ?  Look  at  the 
world!" 


LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD!  89 

With  that  he  passed  onward  with  a  kind  of 
crushing  dignity. 

I  have  laughed  since  when  I  have  re 
called  the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  said,  "Look 
at  the  world!"  Gloomy  and  black  it 
was.  It  evidently  made  him  indignant  to  be 
here. 

But  at  the  moment  his  bitter  query,  the 
essential  attitude  of  spirit  which  lay  behind  it, 
struck  into  me  with  a  poignancy  that  stopped 
me  where  I  stood.  Was  I,  then,  all  wrong 
about  the  world  ?  I  actually  had  a  kind  of  fear 
lest  when  I  should  look  up  again  I  should  find 
the  earth  grown  wan  and  bleak  and  unfriendly, 
so  that  I  should  no  longer  desire  it. 

"Look  at  the  world!"  I  said  aloud. 

And  with  that  I  suddenly  looked  all  around 
me  and  it  is  a  strange,  deep  thing,  as  I  have 
thought  of  it  since,  how  the  world  came  back 
upon  me  with  a  kind  of  infinite,  calm  assurance, 
as  beautiful  as  ever  it  was.  There  were  the  hills 
and  the  fields  and  the  great  still  trees — and  the 
open  sky  above.  And  even  as  I  looked  down 
the  road  and  saw  my  sardonic  old  friend 
plodding  through  the  snow — his  very  back 
frowning — I  had  a  sense  that  he  belonged  in 
the  picture,  too — and  couldn't  help  himself. 


90  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

That  he  even  had  a  kind  of  grace,  and  gave  a 
human  touch  to  that  wintry  scene!  He  had 
probably  said  a  great  deal  more  than  he 
meant! 

Look  at  the  world  ! 

Well,  look  at  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  GOOD  APPLE 

"I  am  made  immortal  by  apprehending  my  possession 
of  incorruptible  goods." 

I  HAVE  just  had  one  of  the  pleasant  ex 
periences  of  life.  From  time  to  time,  these 
brisk  winter  days,  I  like  to  walk  across  the 
fields  to  Horace's  farm.  I  take  a  new  way  each 
time  and  make  nothing  of  the  snow  in  the 
fields  or  the  drifts  along  the  fences.  .  .  . 

"Why,"  asks  Harriet,  "do  you  insist  on 
struggling  through  the  snow  when  there's  a 
good  beaten  road  around?" 

91 


92  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "why  should  any  one 
take  a  beaten  road  when  there  are  new  and 
adventurous  ways  to  travel?" 

When  I  cross  the  fields  I  never  know  at  what 
moment  I  may  come  upon  some  strange  or  sur 
prising  experience,  what  new  sights  I  may  see, 
what  new  sounds  I  may  hear,  and  I  have  the 
further  great  advantage  of  appearing  un 
expectedly  at  Horace's  farm.  Sometimes  I 
enter  by  the  cow  lane,  sometimes  by  way  of 
the  old  road  through  the  wood-lot,  or  I  ap 
pear  casually,  like  a  gust  of  wind,  around 
the  corner  of  the  barn,  or  I  let  Horace  dis 
cover  me  leaning  with  folded  arms  upon  his 
cattle  fence.  I  have  come  to  love  doing  this, 
for  unexpectedness  in  visitors,  as  in  religion 
and  politics,  is  disturbing  to  Horace  and,  as 
sand-grits  in  oysters  produce  pearls,  my  un 
expected  appearances  have  more  than  once 
astonished  new  thoughts  in  Horace,  or  yielded 
pearly  bits  of  native  humour. 

Ever  since  I  have  known  him,  Horace  has 
been  rather  high-and-mighty  with  me;  but  I 
know  he  enjoys  my  visits,  for  I  give  him  al 
ways,  I  think,  a  pleasantly  renewed  sense  of 
his  own  superiority.  When  he  sees  me  his  eye 
lights  up  with  the  comfortable  knowledge  that 


A  GOOD  APPLE  93 

he  can  plough  so  much  better  than  I  can,  that 
his  corn  grows  taller  than  mine,  and  his  hens 
lay  more  eggs.  He  is  a  wonderfully  practical 
man,  is  Horace;  hard-headed,  they  call  it  here. 
And  he  never  feels  so  superior,  I  think,  as  when 
he  finds  me  sometimes  of  a  Sunday  or  an  even 
ing  walking  across  the  fields  where  my  land 
joins  his,  or  sitting  on  a  stone  fence,  or  lying  on 
my  back  in  the  pasture  under  a  certain  friendly 
thorn-apple  tree.  This  he  finds  it  difficult  to 
understand,  and  thinks  it  highly  undisciplined, 
impractical,  no  doubt  reprehensible. 

One  incident  of  the  sort  I  shall  never  forget. 
It  was  on  a  June  day  only  a  year  or  so  after  I 
came  here,  and  before  Horace  knew  me  as  well 
as  he  does  now.  I  had  climbed  the  hill  to  look 
off  across  his  own  high-field  pasture,  where  the 
white  daisies,  the  purple  fleabane,  and  the  but 
tercups  made  a  wild  tangle  of  beauty  among 
the  tall  herd's  grass.  Light  airs  moved  billow 
ing  across  the  field,  bobolinks  and  meadow 
larks  were  singing,  and  all  about  were  the  old 
fences,  each  with  its  wild  hedgerow  of  choke 
cherry,  young  elms,  and  black  raspberry 
bushes,  and  beyond,  across  miles  and  miles  of 
sunny  green  countryside,  the  mysterious  blue 
of  the  ever-changing  hills.  It  was  a  spot  I 


94  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

loved  then,  and  have  loved  more  deeply  every 
year  since. 

Horace  found  me  sitting  on  the  stone  fence 
which  there  divides  our  possessions;  I  think  he 
had  been  observing  me  with  amusement  for 
some  time  before  I  saw  him,  for  when  I  looked 
around  his  face  wore  a  comfortably  superior, 
half-disdainful  smile. 

"David,"  said  he,  "what  ye  doin'  here?" 

"Harvesting  my  crops,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  sharply  to  see  if  I  was  jok 
ing,  but  I  was  perfectly  sober. 

"Harvestin'  yer  crops?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  the  fancy  growing  suddenly 
upon  me,  "and  just  now  I've  been  taking  a 
crop  from  the  field  you  think  you  own." 

I  waved  my  hand  to  indicate  his  high-field 
pasture. 

"Don't  I  own  it?" 

"No,  Horace,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  not  all  of  it. 
To  be  frank  with  you,  since  I  came  here,  I've 
quietly  acquired  an  undivided  interest  in  that 
land.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  first  as  last.  I'm 
like  you,  Horace,  I'm  reaching  out  in  all  di 
rections." 

I  spoke  in  as  serious  a  voice  as  I  could  com 
mand:  the  tone  I  use  when  I  sell  potatoes. 


A  GOOD  APPLE  95 

Horace's  smile  wholly  disappeared.      A  city 
feller  like  me  was  capable  of  anything! 

"How's  that?"  he  exclaimed  sharply. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  That  field  came  down  to 
me  from  my  grandfather  Jamieson." 

I  continued  to  look  at  Horace  with  great 
calmness  and  gravity. 

"Judging  from  what  I  now  know  of  your 
title,  Horace,"  said  I,  "neither  your  grand 
father  Jamieson  nor  your  father  ever  owned  all 
of  that  field.  And  I've  now  acquired  that  part 
of  it,  in  fee  simple,  that  neither  they  nor  you 
ever  really  had." 

At  this  Horace  began  to  look  seriously  wor 
ried.  The  idea  that  any  one  could  get  away 
from  him  anything  that  he  possessed,  especially 
without  his  knowledge,  was  terrible  to  him. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Grayson?" 

He  had  been  calling  me  "David,"  but  he 
now  returned  sharply  to  "Mister."  In  our 
country  when  we  "Mister"  a  friend  something 
serious  is  about  to  happen.  It's  the  signal  for 
general  mobilization. 

I  continued  to  look  Horace  rather  coldly  and 
severely  in  the  eye. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "I've  acquired  a  share  in  that 
field  which  I  shall  not  soon  surrender." 


96  GREAT, ^POSSESSIONS 

An  unmistakable  dogged  look  came  into 
Horace's  face,  the  look  inherited  from  genera 
tions  of  land-owning,  home-defending,  fighting 
ancestors.  Horace  is  New  England  of  New 
England. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  have  already  had  two  or 
three  crops  from  that  field." 

"Huh!"  said  Horace.  "I've  cut  the  grass 
and  I've  cut  the  rowen  every  year  since  you 
bin  here.  What's  more,  I've  got  the  money  fer 
it  in  the  bank." 

He  tapped  his  fingers  on  the  top  of  the  wall. 

"Nevertheless,  Horace,"  said  I,  "I've  got 
my  crops,  also,  from  that  field,  and  a  steady 
income,  too." 

"What  crops?" 

"Well,  I've  just  now  been  gathering  in  one  of 
them.  What  do  you  think  of  the  value  of  the 
fleabane,  and  the  daisies,  and  the  yellow  five- 
finger  in  that  field?" 

"Huh! "said  Horace. 

"Well,  I've  just  been  cropping  them.  And 
have  you  observed  the  wind  in  the  grass — and 
those  shadows  along  the  southern  wall  ?  Aren't 
they  valuable?" 

"Huh!"  said  Horace. 

"I've  rarely  seen  anything  more  beautiful,'* 


I  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  hill  to  look  for  a  moment 
across  the  beautiful  wintery  earth 


A  GOOD  APPLE  97 

I  said,  "than  this  field  and  the  view  across  it — 
I'm  taking  that  crop  now,  and  later  I  shall 
gather  in  the  rowen  of  goldenrod  and  aster, 
and  the  red  and  yellow  of  the  maple  trees — 
and  store  it  all  away  in  my  bank — to  live  on 
next  winter." 

It  was  some  time  before  either  of  us  spoke 
again,  but  I  could  see  from  the  corner  of  my 
eye  that  mighty  things  were  going  on  inside  of 
Horace ;  and  suddenly  he  broke  out  into  a  big 
laugh  and  clapped  his  knee  with  his  hand  in  a 
way  he  has. 

"Is  that  all!"  said  Horace. 

I  think  it  only  confirmed  him  in  the  light 
esteem  in  which  he  held  me.  Though  I 
showed  him  unmeasured  wealth  in  his  own 
fields,  ungathered  crops  of  new  enjoyment, 
he  was  unwilling  to  take  them,  but  was  con 
tent  with  hay.  It  is  a  strange  thing  to  me, 
and  a  sad  one,  how  many  of  our  farmers 
(and  be  it  said  in  a  whisper,  other  people, 
too)  own  their  lands  without  ever  really  pos 
sessing  them:  and  let  the  most  precious  crops 
of  the  good  earth  go  to  waste. 

After  that,  for  a  long  time,  Horace  loved 
to  joke  me  about  my  crops  and  his.  A  joke 
with  Horace  is  a  durable  possession. 


98  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"S'pose  you  think  that's  your  field,"  he'd 
say. 

"The  best  part  of  it,"  I'd  return,  "but 
you  can  have  all  I've  taken,  and  there'll 
still  be  enough  for  both  of  us." 

!( You're  a  queer  one!"  he'd  say,  and  then 
add  sometimes,  dryly,  "but  there's  one  crop 
ye  don't  git,  David,"  and  he'd  tap  his  pocket 
where  he  carries  his  fat,  worn,  leather  pocket- 
book.  "And  as  fer  feelin's,  it  can't  be  beat." 

So  many  people  have  the  curious  idea  that 
the  only  thing  the  world  desires  enough  to 
pay  its  hard  money  for  is  that  which  can  be 
seen  or  eaten  or  worn.  But  there  never  was  a 
greater  mistake.  While  men  will  haggle  to 
the  penny  over  the  price  of  hay,  or  fight  for  a 
cent  more  to  the  bushel  of  oats,  they  will  turn 
out  their  very  pockets  for  strange,  intangible 
joys,  hopes,  thoughts,  or  for  a  moment  of 
peace  in  a  feverish  world — the  unknown  great 
possessions. 

So  it  was  that  one  day,  some  months 
afterward,  when  we  had  been  thus  banter 
ing  each  other  with  great  good  humour,  I 
said  to  him: 

"Horace,  how  much  did  you  get  for  your 
hay  this  year?" 


A  GOOD  APPLE  99 

"Off  that  one  little  piece,"  he  replied,  "I 
figger  fifty- two  dollars." 

"Well,  Horace,"  said  I,  "I  have  beaten 
you.  I  got  more  out  of  it  this  year  than  you 
did."  , 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean 

"No,  Horace,  you  don't.  This  time  I 
mean  just  what  you  do:  money,  cash,  dol 
lars." 

"How's  that,  now?" 

"Well,  I  wrote  a  little  piece  about  your 
field,  and  the  wind  in  the  grass,  and  the 
hedges  along  the  fences,  and  the  weeds  among 
the  timothy,  and  the  fragrance  of  it  all  in 
June  and  sold  it  last  week—  I  leaned 

over  toward  Horace  and  whispered  behind  my 
hand — in  just  the  way  he  tells  me  the  price 
he  gets  for  his  pigs. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed. 

Horace  had  long  known  that  I  was  "a 
kind  of  literary  feller,"  but  his  face  was 
now  a  study  in  astonishment. 

"What?" 

Horace  scratched  his  head,  as  he  is  ac 
customed  to  do  when  puzzled,  with  one 
finger  just  under  the  rim  of  his  hat. 

"Well,  I  vum!"  said  he. 


ioo  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

Here  I  have  been  wandering  all  around 
Horace's  barn — in  the  snow — getting  at  the 
story  I  really  started  to  tell,  which  proba 
bly  supports  Horace's  conviction  that  I  am 
an  impractical  and  unsubstantial  person.  If  I 
had  the  true  business  spirit  I  should  have 
gone  by  the  beaten  road  from  my  house  to 
Horace's,  borrowed  the  singletree  I  went  for, 
and  hurried  straight  home.  Life  is  so  short 
when  one  is  after  dollars !  I  should  not  have 
wallowed  through  the  snow,  nor  stopped  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  to  look  for  a  moment  across 
the  beautiful  wintry  earth — gray  sky  and  bare 
wild  trees  and  frosted  farmsteads  with  homely 
smoke  rising  from  the  chimneys — I  should 
merely  have  brought  home  a  singletree — and 
missed  the  glory  of  life !  As  I  reflect  upon  it 
now,  I  believe  t  took  me  no  longer  to  go  by  the 
fields  than  by  the  road;  and  I've  got  the 
singletree  as  securely  with  me  as  though  I 
had  not  looked  upon  the  beauty  of  the  eternal 
hills,  nor  reflected,  as  I  tramped,  upon  the 
strange  ways  of  man. 

Oh,  my  friend,  is  it  the  settled  rule  of  life 
that  we  are  to  accept  nothing  not  expensive  ? 
It  is  not  so  settled  for  me;  that  which  is  freest, 
cheapest,  seems  somehow  more  valuable  than 


A  GOOD  APPLE  101 

anything  I  pay  for;  that  which  is  given  better 
than  that  which  is  bought;  that  which  passes 
between  you  and  me  in  the  glance  of  an  eye, 
a  touch  of  the  hand,  is  better  than  minted 
money ! 

I  found  Horace  upon  the  March  day  I  speak 
of  just  coming  out  of  his  new  fruit  cellar. 
Horace  is  a  progressive  and  energetic  man,  a 
leader  in  this  community,  and  the  first  to 
have  a  modern  fruit  cellar.  By  this  means 
he  ministers  profitably  to  that  appetite  of 
men  which  craves  most  sharply  that  which  is 
hardest  to  obtain:  he  supplies  the  world  with 
apples  in  March. 

It  being  a  mild  and  sunny  day,  the  door 
of  the  fruit  cellar  was  open,  and  as  I  came 
around  the  corner  I  had  such  of  whiff  of 
fragrance  as  I  cannot  describe.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  vials  of  the  earth's  most  precious 
odours  had  been  broken  there  in  Horace's 
yard !  The  smell  of  ripe  apples ! 

In  the  dusky  depths  of  the  cellar,  down 
three  steps,  I  could  see  Horace's  ruddy  face. 

"How  are  ye,  David,"  said  he.  "Will 
ye  have  a  Good  Apple?" 

So  he  gave  me  a  good  apple.  It  was  a 
yellow  Bellflower  without  a  blemish,  and 


102  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

very  large  and  smooth.  The  body  of  it 
was  waxy  yellow,  but  on  the  side  where 
the  sun  had  touched  it,  it  blushed  a  delicious 
deep  red.  Since  October  it  had  been  in 
the  dark,  cool  storage- room,  and  Horace, 
like  some  old  monkish  connoisseur  of  wines 
who  knows  just  when  to  bring  up  the  bottles 
of  a  certain  vintage,  had  chosen  the  exact 
moment  in  all  the  year  when  the  vintage  of 
the  Bellflower  was  at  its  best.  As  he  passed 
it  to  me  I  caught  a  scent  as  of  old  crushed 
apple  blossoms,  or  fancied  I  did — or  it  may 
have  been  the  still  finer  aroma  of  friendship 
which  passed  at  the  touching  of  our  fin 
gers. 

It  was  a  hand-filling  apple  and  likewise 
good  for  tired  eyes,  an  antidote  for  winter, 
a  remedy  for  sick  souls. 

"A  wonderful  apple!"  I  said  to  Horace, 
holding  it  off  at  arm's  length. 

"No  better  grown  anywhere,"  said  he,  with 
scarcely  restrained  pride. 

I  took  my  delight  of  it  more  nearly;  and 
the  odour  was  like  new-cut  clover  in  an  old 
orchard,  or  strawberry  leaves  freshly  trod 
upon,  or  the  smell  of  peach  wood  at  the  sum 
mer  pruning — how  shall  one  describe  it? — 


A  GOOD  APPLE  103 

at  least  a  compound  or  essence  of  all  the  good 
odours  of  summer. 

"Shall  I  eat  it?"  I  asked  myself,  for  I 
thought  such  a  perfection  of  nature  should 
be  preserved  for  the  blessing  of  mankind. 
As  I  hesitated,  Horace  remarked: 

"  It  was  grown  to  be  eaten." 

So  I  bit  into  it,  a  big  liberal  mouthful, 
which  came  away  with  a  rending  sound  such 
as  one  hears  sometimes  in  a  winter's  ice-pond. 
The  flesh  within,  all  dewy  with  moisture,  was 
like  new  cream,  except  a  rim  near  the  surface 
where  the  skin  had  been  broken;  here  it  was  of 
a  clear,  deep  yellow. 

New  odours  came  forth  and  I  knew  for 
the  first  time  how  perfect  in  deliciousness 
such  an  apple  could  be.  A  mild,  serene,  ripe, 
rich  bouquet,  compounded  essence  of  the  sun 
shine  from  these  old  Massachusetts  hills,  of 
moisture  drawn  from  our  grudging  soil,  of  all 
the  peculiar  virtues  of  a  land  where  the  sum 
mers  make  up  in  the  passion  of  growth  for  the 
long  violence  of  winter;  the  compensatory 
aroma  of  a  life  triumphant,  though  hedged 
about  by  severity,  was  in  the  bouquet  of  this 
perfect  Bellflower. 

Like  some  of  the  finest  of  wines  and  the 


104  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

warmest  of  friends  it  was  of  two  flavours, 
and  was  not  to  be  eaten  for  mere  nourish 
ment,  but  was  to  be  tasted  and  enjoyed. 
The  first  of  the  flavours  came  readily  in  a 
sweetness,  richness,  a  slight  acidity,  that  it 
might  not  cloy;  but  the  deeper,  more  del 
icate  flavour  came  later — if  one  were  not 
crudely  impatient — and  was,  indeed,  the  very 
soul  of  the  fruit.  One  does  not  quickly  arrive 
at  souls  either  in  apples  or  in  friends.  And 
I  said  to  Horace  with  solemnity,  for  this  was 
an  occasion  not  to  be  lightly  treated : 

"I  have  never  in  my  life  tasted  a  finer 
apple." 

"There  is  no  finer  apple,"  said  Horace 
with  conviction. 

With  that  we  fell  to  discussing  the  kinds 
and  qualities  of  all  the  apples  grown  this 
side  China,  and  gave  our  more  or  less  slight 
ing  opinions  of  Ben  Davises  and  Greenings 
and  Russets,  and  especially  of  trivial  summer 
apples  of  all  sorts,  and  came  to  the  conclusion 
at  last  that  it  must  have  been  just  after  God 
created  this  particular  "tree  yielding  fruit" 
that  he  desisted  from  his  day's  work  and  re 
marked  that  what  he  saw  was  good.  The 
record  is  silent  upon  the  point,  and  Moses  is 


A  GOOD  APPLE  105 

not  given  to  adjectives,  but  I  have  often  won 
dered  what  He  would  have  said  if  He  had 
not  only  seen  the  product  of  His  creation, 
but  tasted  it. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  when  I  would  have 
slurred  the  excellence  of  the  Baldwin  in  com 
parison  with  the  Bellflower,  Horace  began  at 
once  to  interpose  objections,  and  defended 
the  excellence  and  perfection  of  that  variety. 
.  .  .  He  has  fifty  barrels  of  Baldwins  in 
his  cellar. 

While  we  talked  with  much  enjoyment  of  the 
lore  of  apples  and  apple-growing,  I  finished  the 
Bellflower  to  the  very  core,  and  said  to  Hor 
ace  as  I  reluctantly  tossed  aside  the  stem  and 
three  seeds: 

"Surely  this  has  been  one  of  the  rare  mo 
ments  of  life." 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY 

"Surely,  man  is  a  wonderfull,  vaine,  divers,  and  waver 
ing  subject:  it  is  very  hard  to  ground  any  directly 
constant  and  uniforme  judgement  upon  him." 

THOUGH  I  live  most  of  the  time  in  the 
country,  as  I  love  best  to  do,  sometimes  I 
go  to  the  city  and  find  there  much  that  is 
strange  and  amusing.  I  like  to  watch  the  in 
ward  flow  of  the  human  tide  in  the  morning, 
and  the  ebb  at  evening,  and  sometimes  in  the 
slack  tide  of  noon  I  drift  in  one  of  the  eddies 
where  the  restless  life  of  the  city  pauses  a  mo 
ment  to  refresh  itself.  One  of  the  eddies  I  like 
best  of  all  is  near  the  corner  of  Madison 
Square,  where  the  flood  of  Twenty-third 
Street  swirls  around  the  bulkhead  of  the 
Metropolitan  tower  to  meet  the  transverse 

106 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  107 

currents  of  Madison  Avenue.  Here,  of  a  bright 
morning  when  Down-at-Heels  is  generously 
warming  himself  on  the  park  benches,  and  Old 
Defeat  watches  Young  Hurry  striding  by,  one 
has  a  royal  choice  of  refreshment :  a  "  red-hot " 
enfolded  in  a  bun  from  the  dingy  sausage 
wagon  at  the  curb,  or  a  plum  for  a  penny  from 
the  Italian  with  the  trundle  cart,  or  news  of  the 
world  in  lurid  gulps  from  the  noon  edition  of 
the  paper — or  else  a  curious  idea  or  so  flung 
out  stridently  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  by  a 
man  on  a  soap  box. 

I  love  this  corner  of  the  great  city;  I  love  the 
sense  of  the  warm  human  tide  flowing  all  about 
me.  I  love  to  look  into  the  strange,  dark, 
eager,  sensitive,  blunt  faces. 

The  other  noon,  drifting  there  in  that  human 
eddy,  I  stopped  to  listen  to  a  small,  shabby 
man  who  stood  in  transitory  eminence  upon 
his  soap  box,  half  his  body  reaching  above  the 
knobby  black  soil  of  human  heads  around  him 
— black,  knobby  soil  that  he  was  seeking,  there 
in  the  spring  sunshine,  to  plough  with  strange 
ideas.  He  had  ruddy  cheeks  and  a  tuft  of 
curly  hair  set  like  an  upholstery  button  on 
each  side  of  his  bald  head.  The  front  teeth  in 
his  upper  jaw  were  missing,  and  as  he  opened 


io8  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

his  mouth  one  could  see  the  ample  lining  of  red 
flannel. 

He  raised  his  voice  penetratingly  to  over 
come  the  noise  of  the  world,  straining  until  the 
dark-corded  veins  of  his  throat  stood  out 
sharply  and  perspiration  gleamed  on  his  bald 
forehead.  As  though  his  life  depended  upon 
the  delivery  of  his  great  message  he  was  ex 
plaining  to  that  close-packed  crowd  that  there 
was  no  God. 

From  time  to  time  he  offered  for  sale 
pamphlets  by  R.  G.  Ingersoll  and  Frederic 
Harrison,  with  grimy  back  numbers  of  a 
journal  called  the  " Truth-Seeker." 

By  the  slant  and  timbre  of  his  speech  he  was 
an  Englishman;  he  had  a  gift  of  vigorous 
statement,  and  met  questioners  like  an  in 
tellectual  pugilist  with  skilful  blows  between 
the  eyes:  and  his  grammar  was  bad. 

I  stood  for  some  time  listening  to  him  while 
he  proved  with  excellent  logic,  basing  his 
reasoning  on  many  learned  authorities,  that 
there  was  no  God.  His  audience  cheered  with 
glee  his  clever  hits,  and  held  up  their  hands  for 
the  books  he  had  for  sale. 

"Who  is  this  speaker?"  I  asked  the  elbowing 
helper  who  came  through  the  crowd  to  deliver  the 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  109 

speaker's  wares  and  collect  the  silver  for  them. 
"Who  is  this  speaker  whosays  there  is  no  God  ? " 

"Henry  Moore,"  he  responded. 

"And  who,"  I  asked,  "is  Henry  Moore?" 

"  He  is  an  Englishman  and  was  brought  up  a 
Presbyterian — but  he  seen  the  light." 

"And  no  longer  thinks  there  is  any  God?" 

"Nope." 

"And  these  books  prove  the  same  thing?" 

"Yep." 

So  I  bought  one  of  them,  thinking  it  wonder 
ful  that  proof  of  so  momentous  a  conclusion 
could  be  had  for  so  small  a  sum. 

This  Henry  Moore  could  fling  arguments 
like  thunderbolts;  he  could  marshall  his 
authorities  like  an  army;  he  could  talk  against 
the  roar  of  the  city  and  keep  his  restless  au 
dience  about  him;  and  if  he  did  not  believe  in 
God  he  had  complete  faith  in  Haeckel  and 
Jacques  Loeb,  and  took  at  face  value  the 
lightest  utterances  of  John  Stuart  Mill. 

I  enjoyed  listening  to  Henry  Moore.  I  en 
joyed  looking  into  the  faces  all  around  me — - 
mostly  keen  foreign  or  half-foreign  faces,  and 
young  faces,  and  idle  faces,  and  curious  faces, 
and  faces  that  drank  in,  and  faces  that  dis 
dainfully  rejected. 


i  io  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

After  a  time,  however,  I  grew  unaccountably 
weary  of  the  vehemence  of  Henry  Moore  and 
of  the  adroit  helper  who  hawked  his  books. 
And  suddenly  I  looked  up  into  the  clear  noon 
blue  of  the  ancient  sky.  A  pigeon  was  flying 
across  the  wide  open  spaces  of  the  square,  the 
sunlight  glinting  on  its  wings.  I  saw  the  quiet 
green  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  park,  and  the 
statue  of  Roscoe  Conkling,  turning  a  non 
chalant  shoulder  toward  the  heated  speaker 
who  said  there  was  no  God.  How  many 
strange  ideas,  contradictory  arguments,  cur 
ious  logic,  have  fallen,  this  last  quarter  cen 
tury,  upon  the  stony  ears  of  Roscoe  Conkling! 
Far  above  me  the  Metropolitan  tower — that 
wonder  work  of  men— lifted  itself  grandly  to 
the  heavens,  and  all  about  I  suddenly  heard 
and  felt  the  roar  and  surge  of  the  mighty  city, 
the  mighty,  careless,  busy  city,  thousands  of 
people  stirring  about  me,  souls  full  of  hot  hopes 
and  mad  desires,  unsatisfied  longings,  unre 
alized  ideals.  And  I  stepped  out  of  the  group 
who  were  gathered  around  the  man  who  said 
there  was  no  God.  .  .  . 

But  I  still  drifted  in  the  eddy,  thinking  how 
wonderful  and  strange  all  these  things  were, 
and  came  thus  to  another  group,  close  gathered 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  in 

at  the  curb.  It  was  much  smaller  than  the 
other,  and  at  the  centre  stood  a  patriarchal 
man  with  a  white  beard,  and  with  him  two 
women.  He  was  leaning  against  the  iron  rail 
ing  of  the  park,  and  several  of  the  free-think 
er's  audience,  freshly  stuffed  with  arguments, 
had  engaged  him  hotly.  Just  as  I  approached 
he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  worn,  leather- 
covered  Bible,  and  said,  tapping  it  with  one 
finger : 

"For  forty  years  I  have  carried  this  book 
with  me.  It  contains  more  wisdom  than  any 
other  book  in  the  world.  Your  friend  there 
can  talk  until  he  is  hoarse — it  will  do  no  harm- 
but  the  world  will  continue  to  follow  the  wis 
dom  of  this  book." 

A  kind  of  exaltation  gleamed  in  his  eye,  and 
he  spoke  with  an  earnestness  equal  to  that  of 
Henry  Moore.  He,  too,  was  a  street  speaker, 
waiting  with  his  box  at  his  side  to  begin.  He 
would  soon  be  standing  up  there  to  prove,  also 
with  logic  and  authority,  that  there  was  a  God. 
He,  also,  would  plough  that  knobby  black 
soil  of  human  heads  with  the  share  of  his 
vehement  faith.  The  two  women  were  with 
him  to  sing  their  belief,  and  one  had  a  basket 
to  take  up  a  collection,  and  the  other,  singling 


ii2  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

me  out  as  I  listened  with  eagerness,  gave  me 
a  printed  tract,  ra  kind  of  advertisement  of 
God. 

I  looked  at  the  title  of  it.  It  was  called : 
"God  in  His  World." 

"Does  this  prove  that  God  is  really  in  the 
world  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "Will  you  read  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  am  glad  to  get  it.  It  is 
wonderful  that  so  great  a  truth  can  be  estab 
lished  in  so  small  a  pamphlet — and  all  for 
nothing." 

She  looked  at  me  curiously,  I  thought,  and 
I  put  the  tract  by  the  side  of  the  pamphlet  I 
had  bought  from  the  freethinker,  and  drifted 
again  in  the  eddy. 

The  largest  crowd  of  all  was  close  packed 
about  a  swarthy  young  chap  whose  bushy 
hair  waved  in  response  to  the  violence  of  his 
oratory.  He,  too,  was  perspiring  with  his 
ideas.  He  had  a  marvellous  staccato  method 
of  question  and  answer.  He  would  shoot  a 
question  like  a  rifle  bullet  at  the  heads  of  his 
audience,  and  then  stiffen  back  like  a  wary 
boxer,  both  clenched  hands  poised  in  a  tremu 
lous  gesticulation,  and  before  any  one  could 
answer  his  bulletlike  question,  he  was  answer- 


I  love  this  corner  of  the  great  city;  I  love  the  sense  of  the 
warm  human  tide  flowing  all  about  me 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  113 

ing  it  himself.  As  I  edged  my  way  nearer  to 
him  I  discovered  that  he,  also,  had  a  little  pile 
of  books  at  his  feet  which  a  keen-eyed  as 
sistant  was  busily  selling.  How  well-estab 
lished  the  technic  of  this  art  of  the  city  eddies! 
How  well-studied  the  psychology! 

I  thought  this  example  the  most  perfect 
of  them  all,  and  watched  with  eagerness  the 
play  of  the  argument  as  it  was  mirrored  in  the 
intent  faces"  all  about  me.  And  gradually  I 
grew  interested  in  what  the  man  was  saying, 
and  thought  of  many  good  answers  I  could 
give  to  his  questionings  if  he  were  not  so 
cunning  with  answers  of  his  own.  Finally,  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  his  loftiest  flights,  he  de 
manded,  hotly: 

"Are  you  not,  every  one  of  you,  a  slave  of 
the  capitalist  class?" 

It  was  perfectly  still  for  a  second  after 
he  spoke,  and  before  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing,  I  responded: 

"Why,  no,  I'm  not." 

It  seemed  to  astonish  the  group  around 
me:  white  faces  turned  my  way. 

But  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  dash 
that  swarthy  young  man.  He  was  as  full 
of  questions  as  a  porcupine  is  full  of  quills. 


114  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "if  I  can  prove  to  you 
that  you  are  a  slave,  will  you  believe  it?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "unless  you  make  me  feel 
like  a  slave,  too!  No  man  is  a  slave  who 
does  not  feel  slavish." 

But  I  was  no  match  for  that  astonishing 
young  orator;  and  he  had  the  advantage 
over  me  of  a  soap  box!  Moreover,  at  that 
moment,  the  keen-eyed  assistant,  never  miss 
ing  an  opportunity,  offered  me  one  of  his  little 
red  books. 

"If  you  can  read  this  without  feeling  a 
slave,"  he  remarked,  "you're  John  D.  himself 
in  disguise." 

I  bought  his  little  red  book  and  put  it 
with  the  pamphlet  of  the  freethinker,  and 
the  tract  of  the  God-fearing  man,  and  stepped 
out  of  that  group,  feeling  no  more  servile 
than  when  I  went  in.  And  I  said  to  myself: 

"This,  surely,  is  a  curious  place  to  be  in." 

For  I  was  now  strangely  interested  in  these 
men  of  the  eddy. 

"There  are  more  gods  preached  here,"  I 
said,  "than  ever  were  known  on  the  Ac 
ropolis." 

Up  the  square  a  few  paces  I  saw  a  covered 
wagon  with  a  dense  crowd  around  it.  And  in 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  115 

front  of  it  upon  a  little  platform  which  raised 
the  speaker  high  above  the  heads  of  the  audi 
ence  stood  a  woman,  speaking  with  shrill 
ardour.  Most  of  the  hearers  were  men;  and 
she  was  telling  them  with  logic  and  authority 
that  the  progress  of  civilization  waited  upon 
the  votes  of  women.  The  army  of  the  world 
stood  still  until  the  rear  rank  of  its  wo 
men  could  be  brought  into  line!  Morals  lan 
guished,  religion  faded,  industries  were  bru 
talized,  home  life  destroyed !  If  only  women 
had  their  rights  the  world  would  at  once  be 
come  a  beautiful  and  charming  place!  Oh, 
she  was  a  powerful  and  earnest  speaker;  she 
made  me  desire  above  everything,  at  the  first 
opportunity,  to  use  my  share  of  the  power  in 
this  Government  to  provide  each  woman  with 
a  vote.  And  just  as  I  had  reached  this  com 
pliant  stage  there  came  a  girl  smiling  and 
passing  her  little  basket.  The  sheer  art  of  it! 
So  I  dropped  in  my  coin  and  took  the  little 
leaflet  she  gave  me  and  put  it  side  by  side 
with  the  other  literature  of  my  accumulating 
library. 

And  so  I  came  away  from  those  hot  little 
groups  with  their  perspiring  orators,  and  felt 
again  the  charm  of  the  tall  buildings  and  the 


n6  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

wide  sunny  square,  and  the  park  with  Down- 
at-Heels  warming  his  ragged  shanks — and  the 
great  city  clanging  heedlessly  by.  How  ser 
ious  they  all  were  there  in  their  eddies!  Is 
there  no  God?  Will  woman  suffrage  or  so 
cialism  cure  all  the  evils  of  this  mad  world— 
which,  ill  as  it  is,  we  would  not  be  without? 
Is  a  belief  for  forty  years  in  the  complete 
wisdom  of  the  Book  the  final  solution  ?  Why 
do  not  all  of  the  seeking  and  'suffering  thou 
sands  flowing  by  in  Twenty-third  Street  stop 
here  in  the  eddies  to  seek  the  solution  of  their 
woes,  the  response  to  their  hot  desires  ? 

So  I  came  home  to  the  country,  thinking  of 
what  I  had  seen  and  heard,  asking  myself, 
"What  is  the  truth,  after  all ?  What  is  real ?" 

And  I  was  unaccountably  glad  to  be  at 
home  again.  As  I  came  down  the  hill  through 
the  town  road  the  valley  had  a  quiet  welcome 
for  me,  and  the  trees  I  know  best,  and  the 
pleasant  fields  of  corn  and  tobacco,  and  the 
meadows  ripe  with  hay.  I  know  of  nothing 
more  comforting  to  the  questioning  spirit  than 
the  sight  of  distant  hills.  .  .  . 

I  found  that  Bill  had  begun  the  hay  cutting. 
I  saw  him  in  the  lower  field  as  I  came  by  in 
the  road.  There  he  was,  stationed  high  on 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  117 

the  load,  and  John,  the  Pole,  was  pitching  on. 
When  he  saw  me  he  lifted  one  arm  high  in  the 
air  and  waved  his  hand — and  I  in  return  gave 
him  the  sign  of  the  Free  Fields. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "it  seems  to  me  I  was 
never  so  glad  before  to  get  home." 

"It's  what  you  always  say,"  she  remarked 
placidly. 

"This  time  it's  true!"  And  I  put  the 
pamphlets  I  had  accumulated  in  the  city 
eddies  upon  the  pile  of  documents  which  I 
fully  intend  to  read  but  rarely  get  to. 

The  heavenly  comfort  of  an  old  shirt! 
The  joy  of  an  old  hat ! 

As  I  walked  down  quickly  into  the  field 
with  my  pitchfork  on  my  shoulder  to  help 
Bill  with  the  hay,  I  was  startled  to  see,  hang 
ing  upon  a  peach  tree  at  the  corner  of  the 
orchard,  a  complete  suit  of  black  clothes. 
Near  it,  with  the  arms  waving  gently  in  the 
breeze,  was  a  white  shirt  and  a  black  tie,  and 
at  the  foot  of  the  tree  a  respectable  black 
hat.  It  was  as  though  the  peach  tree  had 
suddenly,  on  that  bright  day,  gone  into  mourn 
ing. 

I  laughed  to  myself. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  "what  does  this  mean?" 


ii8  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

Bill  is  a  stout  jolly  chap  with  cheeks  that 
look,  after  half  a  day's  haying,  like  raw  beef 
steaks.  He  paused  on  his  load,  smiling 
broadly,  his  straw  hat  set  like  a  halo  on  the 
back  of  his  head. 

"  Expected  a  funeral,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

Bill  is  the  undertaker's  assistant,  and  is 
always  on  call  in  cases  of  emergency. 

"What  happened,  Bill?" 

"They  thought  they'd  bury  'im  this  af 
ternoon,  but  they  took  an*  kep'  'm  over  till 


to-morrow." 


"  But  you  came  prepared." 

"Yas,  no  time  to  go  home  in  hayin'.  The 
pump  fer  me,  and  the  black  togs." 

Bill  calls  the  first  rakings  of  the  hay  "tum 
bles,"  and  the  scattered  re-rakings,  which  he 
despises,  he  calls  "scratchings."  I  took  one 
side  of  the  load  and  John,  the  Pole,  the  other, 
and  we  put  on  great  forkfuls  from  the  tumbles 
which  Bill  placed  skilfully  at  the  corners  and 
sides  of  the  load,  using  the  scratchings  for  the 
centre. 

John,  the  Pole,  watched  the  load  from  be 
low.  "Tank  he  too  big  here,"  he  would  say, 
or,  "Tank  you  put  more  there";  but  Bill  told 
mostly  by  the  feel  of  the  load  under  his  feet 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  119 

or  by  the  "squareness  of  his  eye/'  John,  the 
Pole,  is  a  big,  powerful  fellow,  and  after 
smoothing  down  the  load  with  his  fork  he 
does  not  bother  to  rake  up  the  combings, 
but  gathering  a  bunch  of  loose  hay  with 
his  fork,  he  pushes  it  by  main  strength,  and 
very  quickly,  around  the  load,  and  running  his 
fork  through  the  heap,  throws  it  upon  the 
mountain-high  load  in  a  twinkling — an  admir 
able,  deft  performance. 

Hay-making  is  a  really  beautiful  process: 
the  clicking  mower  cutting  its  clean,  wide 
swath,  a  man  stepping  after,  where  the  hay 
is  very  heavy,  to  throw  the  windrow  back  a 
little.  Then,  after  lying  to  wilt  and  dry  in 
the  burning  sun — all  full  of  good  odours — 
the  horse-rake  draws  it  neatly  into  wide  bil 
lows,  and  after  that,  John,  the  Pole,  and  I 
roll  the  billows  into  tumbles.  Or,  if  the  hay 
is  slow  in  drying,  as  it  was  not  this  year,  the 
kicking  tedder  goes  over  it,  spreading  it 
widely.  Then  the  team  and  rack  on  the 
smooth-cut  meadow  and  Bill  on  the  load,  and 
John  and  I  pitching  on;  and  the  talk  and 
badinage  that  goes  on,  the  excitement  over 
disturbed  field  mice,  the  discussion  of  the 
best  methods  of  killing  woodchucks,  tales  of 


120  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

marvellous  exploits  of  loaders  and  stackers, 
thrilling  incidents  of  the  wet  year  of  '98  when 
two  men  and  one  team  saved  four  acres  of  hay 
by  working  all  night — "with  lanterns,  I  jing" 
— much  talk  of  how  she  goes  on,  "she"  being 
the  hay,  and  no  end  of  observations  upon  the 
character,  accomplishments,  faults,  and  ex 
cesses  of  the  sedate  old  horses  waiting  com 
fortably  out  in  front,  half  hidden  by  the 
mountain  of  hay  above  them  and  nibbling  at 
the  tumbles  as  they  go  by. 

Then  the  proud  moment  when  Bill  the 
driver,  with  legs  apart,  almost  pushing  on  the 
reins,  drives  his  horses  up  the  hill. 

"Go  it,  Dick.  Let  'er  out,  Daisy.  Stiddy, 
ol'  boy.  Whoa,  there.  Ease  down  now.  Hey, 
there,  John,  block  the  wheel — block  the  wheel, 
I  tell  ye.  Ah-h  now,  jes'  breathe  a  bit.  I  jing, 
it's  hot." 

And  then  the  barn,  the  cavernous  dark 
doors,  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  thundering  on 
the  floor,  the  smell  of  cattle  from  below,  the 
pigeons  in  the  loft  whirring  startled  from  their 
perches.  Then  the  hot,  scented,  dusty 
"pitching  off"  and  "mowing  in" — a  fine  proc 
ess,  an  honest  process :  men  sweating  for  what 
they  get. 


I  GO  TO  THE  CITY  121 

As  I  came  in  from  the  field  that  night  the 
sun  was  low  in  the  hills,  and  a  faint  breeze  had 
begun  to  blow,  sweetly  cool  after  the  burning 
heat  of  the  day.  And  I  felt  again  that  curious 
deep  sense  I  have  so  often  here  in  the  country, 
of  the  soundness  and  reality  of  the  plain  things 
of  life. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  OLD  STONE  MASON 

OF  WELL-FLAVOURED  men,  I  knownone 
better  than  those  who  live  close  to  the 
soil  or  work  in  common  things.     Men  are  like 
roses  and  lilacs,  which,  too  carefully  cultivated 
to   please   the   eye,   lose   something  of  their 
native  fragrance.     One  of  the  best-flavoured 
men  I  know  is  my  friend,  the  old  stone  mason. 
To-day  I  rode  over  with  the  old  stone  mason 
to  select  some  wide  stones  for  steps  in  my 
new  building.    The  old  man  loves  stones.    All 


122 


THE  OLD  STONE  MASON  123 

his  life  long — he  is  now  beyond  seventy  years 
old — he  has  lived  among  stones,  lifted  stones, 
fitted  stones.  He  knows  all  the  various  kinds, 
shapes,  sizes,  and  where  they  will  go  best  in  a 
wall.  He  can  tell  at  a  glance  where  to  strike  a 
stone  to  make  it  fit  a  particular  place,  and  out 
of  a  great  pile  he  can  select  with  a  shrewd  eye 
the  stone  for  the  exact  opening  he  has  to  fill. 
He  will  run  his  stubby  rough  hand  over  a  stone 
and  remark: 

"  Fine  face  that.  Ye  don't  see  many  such 
stones  these  days,"  as  though  he  were  speak 
ing  of  the  countenance  of  a  friend. 

I  veritably  believe  there  are  stones  that 
smile  at  him,  stones  that  frown  at  him,  stones 
that  appear  good  or  ill-humoured  to  him  as  he 
bends  his  stocky  strong  body  to  lift  or  lay 
them.  He  is  a  slow  man,  a  slow,  steady, 
geologic  man,  as  befits  one  who  works  with  the 
elemental  stuff  of  nature.  His  arms  are  short 
and  his  hands  powerful.  He  has  been  a  ser 
vant  of  stones  in  this  neighbourhood  alone  for 
upward  of  fifty  years. 

He  loves  stones  and  can  no  more  resist  a 
good  stone  than  I  a  good  book.  When  going 
about  the  country,  if  he  sees  comely  stones  in  a 
wayside  pile,  or  in  a  fine-featured  old  fence  he 


124  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

will  have  them,  whether  or  no,  and  dickers  for 
them  with  all  the  eagerness,  sly  pride,  and  half- 
concealed  cunning  with  which  a  lover  of  old 
prints  chaffers  for  a  Seymour  Haden  in  a 
second-hand  book  shop.  And  when  he  has 
bought  them  he  takes  the  first  idle  day  he  has, 
and  with  his  team  of  old  horses  goes  into  the 
hills,  or  wherever  it  may  be,  and  brings  them 
down.  He  has  them  piled  about  his  barn  and 
even  in  his  yard,  as  another  man  might  have 
flower  beds.  And  he  can  tell  you,  as  he  told  me 
to-day,  just  where  a  stone  of  such  a  size  and 
such  a  face  can  be  found,  though  it  be  at  the 
bottom  of  a  pile.  No  book  lover  with  a  feeling 
sense  for  the  place  in  his  cases  where  each  of 
his  books  may  be  found  has  a  sharper  instinct 
than  he.  In  his  pocket  he  carries  a  lump  of  red 
chalk,  and  when  we  had  made  our  selections  he 
marked  each  stone  with  a  broad  red  cross. 

I  think  it  good  fortune  that  I  secured  the  old 
stone  mason  to  do  my  work,  and  take  to  my 
self  some  credit  for  skill  in  enticing  him.  He  is 
past  seventy  years  old,  though  of  a  ruddy 
fresh  countenance  and  a  clear  bright  eye,  and 
takes  no  more  contracts,  'and  is  even  reluc 
tantly  persuaded  to  do  the  ordinary  stone  work 
of  the  neighbourhood.  He  is  "well  enough  off," 


THE  OLD  STONE  MASON  125 

as  the  saying  goes,  to  rest  during  the  remainder 
of  his  years,  for  he  has  lived  a  temperate  and 
frugal  life,  owns  his  own  home  with  the  little 
garden  behind  it,  and  has  money  in  the  bank. 
But  he  can  be  prevailed  upon,  like  an  old  ar 
tist  who  has  reached  the  time  of  life  when  it 
seems  as  important  to  enjoy  as  to  create,  he 
can  sometimes  be  prevailed  upon  to  lay  a  wall 
for  the  joy  of  doing  it. 

So  I  had  the  stone  hauled  onto  the  ground, 
the  best  old  field  stone  I  could  find,  and  I  had 
a  clean,  straight  foundation  dug,  and  when 
all  was  ready  I  brought  the  old  man  over  to 
look  at  it.  I  said  I  wanted  his  advice.  No 
sooner  did  his  glance  light  upon  the  stone,  no 
sooner  did  he  see  the  open  and  ready  earth 
than  a  new  light  came  in  his  eye.  His  step 
quickened  and  as  he  went  about  he  began  to 
hum  an  old  tune  under  his  breath.  I  knew 
then  that  I  had  him!  He  had  taken  fire.  I 
could  see  that  his  eye  was  already  selecting  the 
stones  that  should  "go  down/'  the  fine  square 
stones  to  make  the  corners  or  cap  the  wall,  and 
measuring  with  a  true  eye  the  number  of  little 
stones  for  the  fillers.  In  no  time  at  all  he  had 
agreed  to  do  my  work ;  indeed,  would  have  felt 
aggrieved  if  I  had  not  employed  him. 


126  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

I  enjoyed  the  building  of  the  wall,  I  think, 
as  much  as  he  did,  and  helped  him  what  I 
Could  by  rolling  the  larger  stones  close  down  to 
the  edge  of  the  wall.  As  the  old  man  works 
he  talks,  if  any  one  cares  to  listen,  or  if  one 
does  not  care  to  listen  he  is  well  content  to 
remain  silent  among  his  stones.  But  I  en 
joyed  listening,  for  nothing  in  this  world  is  so 
fascinating  to  me  as  the  story  of  how  a  man  has 
come  to  be  what  he  is.  When  we  think  of  it 
there  are  no  abstract  adventures  in  this  world, 
but  only  your  adventure  and  my  adventure, 
and  it  is  only  as  we  come  to  know  a  man 
that  we  can  see  how  wonderful  his  life  has 
been. 

He  told  me  all  about  the  great  walls  and  the 
little  walls — miles  and  mi  es  of  them — he  has 
built  in  the  course  of  fifty  years.  He  told  of 
crude  boyhood  walls  when  he  was  a  worker  for 
wages  only,  he  told  of  proud  manhood  walls 
when  he  took  contracts  for  foundations,  re 
taining  walls,  and  even  for  whole  buildings, 
such  as  churches,  where  the  work  was  mostly 
of  stone;  he  told  me  of  thrilling  gains  and 
profits,  and  of  depressing  losses ;  and  he  told  me 
of  his  calm  later  work,  again  on  wages,  for 
which  he  is  chosen  as  a  master  of  his  craft.  A 


THE  OLD  STONE  MASON  127 

whole  long  lifetime  of  it — and  the  last  years 
the  best  of  all ! 

As  we  drove  up  yesterday  to  select  the  steps 
from  his  piles  of  old  field  stone,  riding  behind 
his  great,  slow,  hairy-hoofed  horse,  in  the 
battered  and  ancient  wagon,  he  pointed  with 
his  stubby  whip  to  this  or  that  foundation,  the 
work  of  his  hands. 

"Pine  job,  that,"  said  he,  and  I  looked  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  at  the  beautiful  stone 
work  beneath  the  familiar  home  of  a  friend.  I 
had  seen  the  house  a  thousand  times,  and 
knew  well  the  people  in  it,  but  my  unobservant 
eye  had  never  before  rested  consciously  upon 
that  bit  of  basement  wall.  How  we  go 
through  life,  losing  most  of  the  beauties  of  it 
from  sheer  inability  to  see!  But  the  old  man, 
as  he  drives  about,  rarely  sees  houses  at  all, 
especially  wooden  houses,  and  for  all  modern 
stucco  and  cement  work  he  entertains  a  kind  of 
lofty  contempt.  Sham  work  of  a  hasty  and 
unskilled  age!  He  never,  I  think,  put  in  a 
shovelful  of  cement  except  in  the  place  where 
it  belongs,  as  a  mortar  for  good  walls,  and 
never  will  do  so  as  long  as  he  lives.  So  long  as 
he  lives  the  standards  of  high  art  will  never  be 
debased! 


128  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

He  built  that  foundation,  and  this  chimney; 
he  worked  on  the  tower  of  the  Baptist  church 
in  the  town,  "and  never  yet  has  there  been  a 
crack  in  her,  winter  or  summer";  and  more 
than  forty  years  ago  he  laid  the  cornerstone 
of  the  old  schoolhouse,  the  foundation  walls  of 
which  stand  to-day  as  sound  and  strong  as 
they  were  when  they  were  put  down. 

In  dry  walls  I  think  the  old  stone  mason 
takes  the  greatest  pride  of  all :  for  it  is  in  the 
dry  wall — I  mean  by  that  a  wall  laid  without 
mortar — that  the  sheer  art  of  the  mason  comes 
most  into  play.  Any  one  can  throw  a  wall  to 
gether  if  he  has  mortar  to  make  it  stick,  but  a 
dry  wall  must  stand  out  for  what  it  is,  built 
solid  from  the  bottom  up,  each  stone  resting 
securely  upon  those  below  it,  and  braced  and 
nested  in  by  the  sheer  skill  of  the  mason.  The 
art  of  the  dry  wall  is  the  ancient  heritage  of 
New  England  and  speaks  not  only  of  the  sin 
cerity  and  the  conscientiousness  of  the  old 
Puritan  spirit  but  strikes  the  higher  note  of 
beauty.  Many  of  the  older  walls  I  know  are 
worth  going  far  to  see,  for  they  exhibit  a  rare 
sense  of  form  and  proportion,  and  are  some 
times  set  in  the  landscape  with  a  skill  that  only 
the  Master-Artist  himself  could  exceed.  Those 


THE  OLD  STONE  MASON          129 

old,  hard-wrought  stone  fences  of  the  Burn- 
ham  Hills  and  Crewsbury,  the  best  of  them, 
were  honestly  built,  and  built  to  last  a  thou 
sand  years.  A  beautiful  art — and  one  that  is 
passing  away!  It  is  the  dry  wall  that  stands  of 
itself  that  the  old  stone  mason  loves  best  of  all. 

As  we  drove  along  the  road  the  old  man 
pointed  out  to  me  with  his  stubby  whip  so 
many  examples  of  his  work  that  it  seemed 
finally  as  if  he  had  borne  a  hand  in  nearly 
everything  done  in  this  neighbourhood  in  the 
last  half-century.  He  has  literally  built  him 
self  into  the  country  and  into  the  town,  and  at 
seventy  years  of  age  he  can  look  back  upon  it 
all  with  honest  pride.  It  stands.  No  jerry- 
work  anywhere.  No  cracks.  It  stands. 

I  never  realized  before  how  completely 
the  neighbourhood  rests  upon  the  work  of 
this  simple  old  man.  He  founded  most  of  the 
homes  here,  and  upon  his  secure  walls  rest 
many  of  the  stores,  the  churches,  and  the 
schools  of  the  countryside.  I  see  again  how 
important  each  man  is  to  the  complete  fabric 
of  civilization  and  know  that  we  are  to  leave  no 
one  out,  despise  no  one,  look  down  upon  no  one. 

He  told  me  stories  of  this  ancient  settler 
and  of  that. 


130  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"  He  was  a  powerful  queer  man — he  wanted 
the  moss  left  on  his  stones  when  I  put  'em 
in;  never  a  hammer  touched  the  facings  of 
his  wall.  .  .  . 

'That  is  properly  a  woman's  wall.  She 
was  the  boss,  you  might  call  it,  and  wanted 
stone,  but  he  wanted  brick.  So  you  see  the 
front,  where  people  can  see  it,  is  of  stone,  but 
the  sides  is  all  brick." 

Thus  like  the  true  artist  that  he  is,  he 
has  not  only  built  himself,  his  own  honesty, 
truth,  skill,  into  the  town,  but  he  has  built 
in  the  inexhaustible  peculiarities,  the  radiant 
charm,  the  hates  and  the  loves,  of  the  people 
of  this  place.  He  has  mirrored  his  own  little 
age  in  stone.  He  knows  the  town,  indeed, 
better  than  most  of  us,  having  a  kind  of  stone- 
age  knowledge  of  it — the  fundamental  things 
men  build  in  when  they  set  about  building 
permanently. 

"And  that  is  what  you  might  call  a  spite- 
wall,"  said  he,  showing  me  a  long  wall  leading 
between  two  shady  homes,  making  one  of 
them  a  prison  on  the  south,  and  the  other  a 
prison  on  the  north.  He  told  me  the  story 
of  an  ancient  and  bitter  quarrel  between  two 
old  friends,  a  story  which  sounded  to-day 


THE  OLD  STONE  MASON          131 

among  spring  blossoms  like  the  account  of 
some  ancient  baronial  feud. 

But  if  the  old  stone  mason  has  built  walls 
to  keep  enemies  apart  how  many  more  walls 
has  he  built  to  keep  friends  together?  How 
many  times  has  he  been  consulted  by  shy 
lovers  seeking  a  foundation  for  a  new  home,  a 
new  family,  how  many  times  by  Darby  and 
Joan  planning  a  resting  place  for  the  sunny 
closing  years  of  their  lives!  He  could  point, 
indeed,  to  one  wall  that  symbolized  hatred: 
all  the  others  meant  homes,  roof-trees,  fami 
lies,  or  they  were  the  foundations  for  the 
working  places  of  men,  or  else,  like  the  tower 
of  the  church,  they  pointed  heavenward  and 
were  built  to  the  glory  of  God. 

The  old  stone  mason  has  not  the  slightest 
idea  that  he  has  done  anything  unusual  or 
wonderful.  He  is  as  simple  and  honest  a 
man  as  ever  I  knew;  and  if  he  has  pride, 
simple  and  honest  also  in  that.  He  was  anx 
ious  not  to  charge  me  too  much  for  the  stone 
I  bought — in  an  age  like  this!  I  have  never 
talked  with  him  about  God,  or  about  religion: 
I  had  no  need  to. 

He  has  done  his  duty  in  other  ways  by 
his  time  and  his  place.  He  has  brought 


132 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS 


All  the  others  meant  homes,  roof-trees,  families,  or  else,  like 
the  tower  of  the  church,  they  pointed  heavenward,  and  were 
built  to  the  glory  of  God 


THE  OLD  STONE  MASON  133 

up  a  large  family  of  children;  and  has  known 
sorrow  and  loss,  as  well  as  happiness  and  con 
tentment.  Two  of  his  children  were  taken 
in  one  day  with  pneumonia.  He  told  me 
about  it  with  a  quaver  in  his  old  voice. 

"How  long  ago  was  it?"  I  asked. 

"Twenty-seven  years." 

He  has  sons  and  daughters  left,  and  two 
of  the  sons  he  has  well  trained  as  stone  ma 
sons  after  him.  They  are  good  as  young  men 
go  in  a  degenerate  age.  They  insist  on  working 
in  cement!  He  has  grandchildren  in  school, 
and  spoils  them.  - 

He  is  also  a  man  of  public  interests  and 
upon  town-meeting  day  puts  on  his  good 
clothes  and  sits  modestly  toward  the  back 
of  the  hall.  Though  he  rarely  says  any 
thing  he  always  has  a  strong  opinion,  an  opin 
ion  as  sound  and  hard  as  stones  and  as  sim 
ple,  upon  most  of  the  questions  that  come 
up.  And  he  votes  as  he  thinks,  though 
the  only  man  in  meeting  who  votes  that  way. 
For  when  a  man  works  in  the  open,  laying 
walls  true  to  lines  and  measurements,  being 
honest  with  natural  things,  he  comes  clear, 
sane,  strong,  upon  many  things.  I  would 
sooner  trust  his  judgment  upon  matters  that 


134  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

are  really  important  as  between  man  and 
man,  and  man  and  God,  than  I  would  trust  the 
town  lawyer.  And  if  he  has  grown  a  little 
testy  with  some  of  the  innovations  of  modern 
life,  and  thinks  they  did  everything  better 
forty  years  ago — and  says  so — he  speaks,  at 
least,  his  honest  conviction. 

If  I  can  lay  my  walls  as  true  as  he  does, 
if  I  can  build  myself  a  third  part  as  firmly 
into  any  neighbourhood  as  he  has  into  this, 
if  at  seventy  years  of  age — if  ever  I  live  to 
lay  walls  with  joy  at  that  time  of  life — if  I 
can  look  back  upon  my  foundations,  my 
heaven-pointing  towers,  and  find  no  cracks 
or  strains  in  them,  I  shall  feel  that  I  have 
made  a  great  success  of  my  life.  . 

I  went  out  just  now:  the  old  man  was 
stooping  to  lift  a  heavy  stone.  His  hat  was 
off  and  the  full  spring  sunshine  struck  down 
warmly  upon  the  ruddy  bald  spot  on  the  top 
of  his  head,  the  white  hair  around  about  it 
looking  silvery  in  that  light.  As  he  placed 
the  stone  in  the  wall,  he  straightened  up  and 
rubbed  his  stubby  hand  along  it. 

"A  fine  stone  that!"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AN   AUCTION    OF   ANTIQUES 

"I  would  not  paint  a  face 
•  *  Or  rocks  or  streams  or  trees 
Mere  semblances  of  things — 
But  something  more  than  these. 

"I  would  not  play  a  tune 

Upon  the  sheng  or  lute 
Which  did  not  also  sing 

Meanings  that  else  were  mute." 

"OHN    TEMPLETON   died    on    the    last 
day  of  August,  but  it  was  not  until  some 
135 


136  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

weeks  later  that  his  daughter  Julia,  that 
hard-favoured  woman,  set  a  time  for  the  auc 
tion.  It  fell  happily  upon  a  mellow  autumn 
day,  and  as  I  drove  out  I  saw  the  apples  ripen 
ing  in  all  the  orchards  along  the  road,  and 
the  corn  was  beginning  to  look  brown,  and 
the  meadows  by  the  brook  were  green  with 
rowen.  It  was  an  ideal  day  for  an  auction, 
and  farmers  and  townsmen  came  trooping 
from  all  parts  of  the  country,  for  the  Temple- 
ton  antiques  were  to  be  sold. 

John  Templeton  lived  in  one  house  for 
seventy-eight  years;  he  was  born  there — and 
you  will  find  the  like  of  that  in  few  places 
in  America.  It  was  a  fine  house  for  its  time, 
for  any  time,  and  not  new  when  John  Temple- 
ton  was  born.  A  great,  solid,  square  struc 
ture,  such  as  they  built  when  the  Puritan  spirit 
was  virile  in  New  England,  with  an  almost 
Greek  beauty  of  measured  lines.  It  has  a 
fanlight  over  the  front  door,  windows  ex 
quisitely  proportioned,  and  in  the  centre  a 
vast  brick  chimney.  Even  now,  though  wea 
thered  and  unpainted,  it  stands  four-square 
upon  the  earth  with  a  kind  of  natural  dignity. 
A  majestic  chestnut  tree  grows  near  it,  and 
a  large  old  barn  and  generous  sheds,  now 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       137 

somewhat  dilapidated,  ramble  away  to  the 
rear. 

Enclosing  the  fields  around  about  are 
stone  fences  representing  the  infinite  labour 
of  John  Templeton's  forebears.  More  toil 
has  gone  into  the  stone  fences  of  New  Eng 
land,  free  labour  of  a  free  people,  than  ever 
went  into  the  slave-driven  building  of  the 
Pyramids  of  Egypt. 

I  knew  John  Templeton  in  his  old  age — 
a  stiff,  weather-beaten  old  man  driving  to 
town  in  a  one-horse  buggy. 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Templeton?" 

"Comin'  on,  comin5  on."  This  was  his 
invariable  reply. 

He  had  the  old  New  England  pronunci 
ation,  now  disappearing.  He  said  "rud"  for 
road,  "daown"  for  down,  and  gave  an  in 
describable  twist  to  the  word  garden,  best 
spelled  "gardin."  He  had  also  the  old  New 
England  ways.  He  was  forehanded  with  his 
winter  woodpile,  immaculately  neat  with  his 
dooryard,  determined  in  his  Sunday  obser 
vance,  and  if  he  put  the  small  apples  in  the 
middle  of  the  barrel  he  refused  to  raise  to 
bacco,  lest  it  become  a  cause  of  stumbling  to 
his  neighbour.  He  paid  his  debts,  disciplined 


138  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

his  children,  and  in  an  age  which  has  come  to 
look  chummily  upon  God,  he  dreaded  His 
wrath. 

He  grew  a  peculiar,  very  fine  variety  of 
sweet  apple  which  I  have  never  seen  any 
where  else.  He  called  it  the  Pumpkin  Sweet, 
for  it  was  of  a  rich  yellow.  I  can  see  him 
yet,  driving  into  town  with  a  shallow  wagon 
box  half  full  of  this  gold  of  the  orchard ;  can 
see  him  turn  stiffly  to  get  one  of  the  apples  for 
me ;  can  hear  him  say  in  the  squeaky  voice  of 
age: 

'''  Ye  won't  find  no  sweeter  apples  hereabout, 
I  can  tell  ye  that." 

He  was  a  dyed-in-the-wool  abolition  Re 
publican  and  took  the  Boston  Transcript  for 
forty-six  years.  He  left  two  cords  of  them 
piled  up  in  a  back  storeroom.  He  loved  to 
talk  about  Napoleon  Bonaparte  and  the 
Battle  of  Waterloo,  and  how,  if  there  had  not 
been  that  delay  of  half  an  hour,  the  history  of 
the  world  might  have  been  different.  I  can  see 
him  saying,  with  the  words  puffing  out  his 
loose  cheeks: 

"And  then  Blooker  kem  up " 

To  the  very  last,  even  when  his  eyes  were 
too  dim  to  read  and  his  voice  was  cracked,  he 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       139 

would  start  up,  like  some  old  machine  set  a- 
whirring  when  you  touched  the  rusty  lever, 
and  talk  about  the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 

No  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  ever  heard  him 
complain,  or  bemoan  his  age,  or  regret  the 
change  in  the  times;  and  when  his  day  came, 
he  lay  down  upon  his  bed  and  died. 

"  Positively  nothing  will  be  reserved,"  were 
the  familiar  words  of  the  poster,  and  they  have 
a  larger  meaning  in  an  old  country  neighbour 
hood  than  the  mere  sale  of  the  last  pan  and  jug 
and  pig  and  highboy.  Though  we  live  with  our 
neighbours  for  fifty  years  we  still  secretly 
wonder  about  them.  We  still  suspect  that 
something  remains  covered,  something  kept  in 
and  hidden  away,  some  bits  of  beauty  un 
appreciated — as  they  are,  indeed,  with  our 
selves.  But  death  snatches  away  the  last 
friendly  garment  of  concealment ;  and  after  the 
funeral  the  auction.  We  may  enter  now.  The 
doors  stand  at  last  flung  widely  open;  all  the 
attics  have  been  ransacked ;  all  the  chests  have 
been  turned  out;  a  thousand  privacies  stand 
glaringly  revealed  in  the  sunny  open  spaces  of 
the  yard.  Positively  nothing  will  be  reserved; 
everything  will  be  knocked  down  to  the  highest 
bidder.  What  wonder  that  the  neighbourhood 


140  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

gathers,  what  wonder  that  it  nods  its  head, 
leaves  sentences  half  uttered,  smiles  enigmati 
cally. 

Nearly  all  the  contents  of  the  house  had  been 
removed  to  the  yard,  under  the  great  chestnut 
tree.  A  crowd  of  people,  mostly  women,  were 
moving  about  among  the  old  furniture,  the  old 
furniture  that  had  been  in  John  Templeton's 
family  for  no  one  knows  how  long — old  high 
boys  and  lowboys,  a  beautifully  simple  old 
table  or  so,  and  beds  with  carved  posts,  and 
hand-wrought  brasses,  and  an  old  tall  clock 
that  struck  with  sonorous  dignity.  These 
things,  which  had  been  temptingly  advertised 
as  "antiques,"  a  word  John  Templeton  never 
knew,  were  only  the  common  serviceable  things 
of  uncounted  years  of  family  life. 

Nothing  about  the  place  was  of  any  great 
value  except  the  antiques,  and  it  was  these 
that  drew  the  well-dressed  women  in  automo 
biles  from  as  far  away  as  Hempfield  and  Nor- 
tontown ;  and  yet  there  were  men  in  plenty  to 
poke  the  pigs,  look  sarcastically  at  the  teeth  of 
the  two  old  horses,  and  examine  with  calculat 
ing  and  rather  jeering  eyes  John  Templeton's 
ancient  buggy,  and  the  harness  and  the  worn 
plough  and  cultivator  and  mowing  machine. 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       141 

Everything  seems  so  cheap,  so  poor,  so  un 
protected,  when  the  spirit  has  departed. 

Under  the  chestnut  tree  the  swarthy  auc 
tioneer  with  his  amiable  countenance  and 
ironical  smile  acquired  through  years  of  dis 
passionate  observation  of  the  follies  of  human 
emotion,  the  mutability  of  human  affairs,  the 
brevity  of  human  endeavour,  that  brought 
everything  at  last  under  his  hammer — there  by 
the  chestnut  tree  the  auctioneer  had  taken  his 
stand  in  temporary  eminence  upon  an  old  chest, 
with  an  ancient  kitchen  cupboard  near  him 
which  served  at  once  as  a  pulpit  for  exhorta 
tion,  and  a  block  for  execution.  Already  the 
well-worn  smile  had  come  pat  to  his  counte 
nance,  and  the  well-worn  witticisms  were  ready 
to  his  tongue. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  if  you'll  give  me  such  at 
tention  as  you  can  spare  from  the  ladies,  we 
have  here  to-day— 

But  I  could  not,  somehow,  listen  to  him :  the 
whole  scene,  the  whole  deep  event,  had  taken 
hold  upon  me  strangely.  It  was  so  full  of  hu 
man  meaning,  human  emotion,  human  pathos. 
I  drifted  away  from  the  crowd  and  stepped  in 
at  the  open  door  of  the  old  house,  and  walked 
through  the  empty,  resounding  rooms  with 


i4»  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

their  curious  old  wallpaper  and  low  ceilings 
and  dusty  windows.  And  there  were  the  old 
fireplaces  where  the  heavy  brick  had  been 
eaten  away  by  the  pokings  and  scrapings  of  a 
century;  and  the  thresholds  worn  by  the  pas 
sage  of  many  feet,  the  romping  feet  of  chil 
dren,  the  happy  feet  of  youth — the  bride 
passed  here  on  her  wedding  night  with  her  arm 
linked  in  the  arm  of  the  groom — the  sturdy, 
determined  feet  of  maturity;  the  stumbling 
feet  of  old  age  creeping  in;  the  slow,  pushing 
feet  of  the  bearers  with  the  last  burden,  crowd 
ing  out— 

The  air  of  the  house  had  a  musty,  shut-in 
odour,  ironically  cut  through,  as  all  old  things 
are,  by  the  stinging  odour  of  the  new:  the 
boiling  of  the  auction  coffee  in  the  half-dis 
mantled  kitchen,  the  epochal  moment  in 
the  life  of  Julia  Templeton.  I  could  hear, 
occasionally,  her  high,  strident,  worried  voice 
ordering  a  helper  about.  Such  a  hard-favoured 
woman ! 

It  is  the  studied  and  profitable  psychology  of 

the  auction  that  the  rubbish  must  be  sold  first 

—pots  and  bottles  and  jugs  at  five-cent  bids, 

and  hoes  at  ten — and  after  that,  the  friction  of 

the  contest  having  warmed  in  the  bidders  an 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       143 

amiable  desire  to  purchase  goods  they  do  not 
want  and  cannot  use,  the  auctioneer  gradually 
puts  forth  the  treasures  of  the  day. 

As  I  came  out  of  the  old  house  I  could  see 
that  the  mystic  web  had  been  spun,  that  the 
great  moment  of  the  sale  was  arriving.  The 
auctioneer  was  leaning  forward  now  upon  the 
tall  cupboard  with  an  air  of  command,  and 
surveying  the  assembled  crowd  with  a  lordly 
eye. 

"Now,  Jake,  careful  there — pass  it  along — 
steady.  .  .  .  We  come  now  to  the  cheff 
dooves  of  the  day,  the  creem  delly  creems  of 
this  sale.  Gentleman  and  ladies,  it  is  a  great 
moment  in  the  life  of  an  auctioneer  when  he 
can  offer,  for  sale,  free  and  without  reserva 
tion,  such  treasures  as  these.  .  .  ." 

I  could  feel  the  warming  interest  of  the 
crowd  gathering  in  more  closely  about  Mr. 
Harpworth,  the  furtive  silences  of  shrewd 
bargainers,  eagerness  masked  as  indifference, 
and  covetousness  cloaking  itself  with  smiling 
irony.  It  is  in  the  auction  that  trade  glorifies 
itself  finally  as  an  Art. 

"Here,  gentlemen  and  ladies,  is  a  genuine 
antique,  hand-wrought  and  solid  all  the  way 
through.  Just  enough  worn  to  give  the  flavour 


144  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

and  distinction  of  age.  Well  built  in  the  first 
place,  plain,  simple  lines,  but,  ladies,  beauti 
ful " 

It  was  the  tall  four-post  bed  he  was  selling; 
and  he  now  put  his  hand  upon  this  object  of 
hardy  service  with  a  cunningly  simulated  air 
of  deference.  It  was  to  be  profaned  by  no 
irreverent  handling! 

"What  am  I  offered  for  this  heirloom  of  the 
Templeton  family  ?  Ten  ?  Ten !  Fifteen  over 
there — thank  you,  Mr.  Cody.  Why,  gentle 
men,  that  bed  cannot  be  duplicated  in  Amer 
ica  !  A  real  product  of  Colonial  art !  Look  at 
the  colour  of  it!  Where  will  you  find  such 
depth  of  colour  in  any  modern  piece?  Age 
varnished  it,  gentlemen,  age  and  use — the  use 
of  a  hundred  years.  .  .  .  Twenty  over 
there,  twenty  I  hear,  twenty,  twenty — make  it 
thirty.  .  .  .  Speak  up  now,  Ike,  we  know 
youVe  come  here  to-day  to  make  your  fortune 
—do  I  hear  thirty?" 

No  sooner  had  the  great  bed  been  sold  ("it's 
yours,  Mrs.  Craigie,  a  treasure  and  dirt 
cheap")  there  came  an  ancient  pair  of  hand- 
wrought  andirons,  and  a  spider-legged  table, 
and  a  brass  warming-pan,  and  a  banjo 
clock. 


"What  am  I  offered  for  this  precious  antique?     This 
hand-made  spread?" 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       145 

I  scarcely  know  how  to  explain  it,  but  the 
sale  of  these  inanimate  antiques,  so  charged 
with  the  restrained  grace,  the  reticent  beauty, 
the  serviceable  strength,  of  a  passing  age,  took 
hold  upon  me  with  strange  intensity.  In 
times  of  high  emotion  the  veil  between  sight 
and  insight  slips  aside  and  that  which  lies 
about  us  suddenly  achieves  a  higher  reality. 
We  are  conscious  of 

"Something  beside  the  form 
Something  beyond  the  sound." 

It  came  to  me  with  a  thrill  that  this  was  no 
mere  sale  of  antique  wood  and  brass  and  iron, 
but  a  veritable  auction,  here  symbolized,  of  the 
decaying  fragments  of  a  sternly  beautiful 
civilization. 

I  looked  off  across  the  stony  fields,  now  softly 
green  in  the  sunlight,  from  which  three  genera 
tions  of  the  Templeton  family  had  wrung  an 
heroic  living;  I  looked  up  at  the  majestic  old 
house  where  they  had  lived  and  married  and 
died.  .  .  . 

As  my  eye  came  back  to  the  busy  scene  be 
neath  the  chestnut  tree  it  seemed  to  me,  how 
vividly  I  cannot  describe — that  beside  or  be 
hind  the  energetic  and  perspiring  Mr.  Harp- 


146  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

worth  there  stood  Another  Auctioneer.  And 
I  thought  he  had  flowing  locks  and  a  patriar 
chal  beard,  and  a  scythe  for  a  sign  of  the  un 
certainty  of  life,  and  a  glass  to  mark  the 
swiftness  of  its  passage.  He  was  that  Great 
Auctioneer  who  brings  all  things  at  last  under 
his  inexorable  hammer. 

After  that,  though  Mr.  Harpworth  did  his 
best,  he  claimed  my  attention  only  intermit 
tently  from  that  Greater  Sale  which  was  going 
on  at  his  side,  from  that  Greater  Auctioneer 
who  was  conducting  it  with  such  consummate 
skill — for  he  knew  that  nothing  is  for  sale  but 
life.  The  mahogany  highboy,  so  much  packed 
and  garnered  life  cut  into  inanimate  wood ;  the 
andirons,  so  much  life;  the  bookshelves  upon 
which  John  Templeton  kept  his  "  Life  of  Napo 
leon  Bonaparte/'  so  much  life.  Life  for  sale, 
gentlemen !  What  am  I  offered  to-day  for  this 
bit  of  life — and  this — and  this 

Mr.  Harpworth  had  paused,  for  even  an 
auctioneer,  in  the  high  moment  of  his  art, 
remains  human;  and  in  the  silence  follow 
ing  the  cessation  of  the  metallic  click  of 
his  voice,  "Thirty,  thirty,  thirt,  thirt — make 
it  thirty-five — thank  you — forty,"  one  could 
hear  the  hens  gossiping  in  the  distant  yard. 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       147 

"There  were  craftsmen  in  those  days,  gen 
tlemen,"  he  was  resuming;  "look  at  this  ex 
ample  of  their  art — there  is  quality  here  and 
durability— 

At  this  point  the  Great  Auctioneer  broke 
in  upon  my  attention  and  caught  up  Mr. 
Harpworth's  words: 

"Yes,  quality  and  durability — quality  and 
durability.  I  also  have  here  to-day,  and 
will  offer  you,  gentlemen,  a  surpassing  antique, 
not  built  of  wood  nor  fashioned  in  brass  or 
iron,  but  a  thing  long  attached  to  these  acres 
and  this  house.  I  present  for  your  considera 
tion  the  married  life  of  John  Templeton  and 
Hannah  his  wife.  They  lived  together  forty 
years,  and  the  record  scarcely  shows  a  dent. 
In  all  that  time  hardly  a  word  of  love  passed 
between  them;  but  never  a  word  of  hatred, 
either.  They  had  a  kind  of  hard  and  fast 
understanding,  like  the  laws  of  Moses.  He  did 
the  work  of  the  fields  and  she  did  the  work 
of  the  house,  from  sunrise  to  sunset.  On  Sun 
day  they  went  to  church  together.  He  got 
out  at  five  o'clock  to  milk  and  harness  up; 
and  it  made  double  work  for  her,  what  with 
getting  the  children  cleaned,  and  the  milk 
taken  care  of,  and  the  Sunday  dinner  made 


148  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

ready.  But  neither  he  nor  she  ever  doubted 
or  complained.  It  was  the  Lord's  way.  She 
bore  him  eight  children.  She  told  him  before 
the  last  one  came  that  she  was  not  equal  to 
it.  ...  After  that  she  was  an  invalid  for 
seventeen  years  until  she  died.  And  there  was 
loss  of  children  to  bear  between  them,  and  sick 
ness,  and  creeping  age — but  this  bit  of  furni 
ture  held  firm  to  the  last.  Gentlemen,  it  was 
made  solid,  no  veneer,  a  good  job  all  the  way 
through." 

As  he  spoke  I  thought  that  his  roving  eye 
(perhaps  it  was  only  my  own !)  fell  upon  Johnny 
Holcomb,  whose  married  life  has  been  full  of 
vicissitudes. 

"John,  take  this  home  with  you;  you  can 
use  it-" 

"Nope,  no  such  married  life  for  me,"  I 
thought  I  could  hear  him  responding,  rather 
pleased  than  not  to  be  the  butt  of  the  auctioneer. 

"Do  I  hear  any  bids?"  the  Great  Auc 
tioneer  was  saying,  almost  in  the  words  of 
Mr.  Harpworth.  "What!  No  one  wants  a 
married  life  like  this?  Well,  put  it  aside, 
Jake.  It  isn't  wanted.  Too  old-fashioned." 

It  was  Julia  Templeton  herself  who  now 
appeared  with  certain  of  the  intimate  and 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       149 

precious  "bedroom  things" — a  wonderful  old 
linen  bedspread,  wrought  upon  with  woollen 
figures,  and  exaling  an  ancient  and  exquisite 
odour  of  lavender,  and  a  rag  rug  or  so,  and  a 
little  old  rocking  chair  with  chintz  coverings 
in  which  more  than  one  Templeton  mother  had 
rocked  her  baby  to  sleep.  Julia  herself— 

I  saw  Julia,  that  hard-favoured  woman, 
for  the  first  time  at  that  moment,  really 
saw  her.  How  fiercely  she  threw  down  the 
spread  and  the  rugs!  How  bold  and  un- 
weeping  her  eyes!  How  hard  and  straight 
the  lines  of  her  mouth ! 

"Here  they  are,  Mr.  Harpworth!" 

How  shrill  her  voice;  and  how  quickly 
she  turned  back  to  the  noisy  kitchen!  I 
could  see  the  angular  form,  the  streakings 
of  gray  in  her  hair.  .  .  . 

"What  am  I  offered  now  for  this  precious 
antique?  This  hand-made  spread?  Every 
thing  sold  without  reserve !  Come,  now,  don't 
let  this  opportunity  slip  by."  He  leaned  for 
ward  confidentially  and  persuasively:  "Fellah 
citizens,  styles  change  and  fashions  pass  away, 
but  things  made  like  these,  good  lines,  strong 
material,  honest  work,  they  never  grow 
old. 


ISO  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

Here  the  Shadowy  Auctioneer  broke  in  again 
and  lifted  me  out  of  that  limited  moment. 

"A  true  word!"  he  was  saying.  "Styles 
change  and  fashions  pass  away,  and  only 
those  things  that  are  well  made,  and  made 
for  service — the  beautiful  things — remain.  I 
am  offering  to-day,  without  reservation,  an 
other  precious  antique.  What  will  you  give 
for  such  a  religious  faith  as  that  of  John 
Templeton?  Worn  for  a  lifetime  and  sound 
to  the  end.  He  read  the  Bible  every  Sunday 
morning  of  his  life,  went  to  church,  and  did 
his  religious  duty  by  his  children.  Do  you 
remember  young  Joe  Templeton?  Wouldn't 
learn  his  chapter  one  Sunday,  and  the  old 
gentleman  prayed  about  it  and  then  beat 
him  with  a  hitching  strap.  Joe  ran  away 
from  home  and  made  his  fortune  in  Minne 
sota.  Nearly  broke  the  mother's  heart,  and 
old  John's,  too;  but  he  thought  it  right,  and 
never  repented  it.  Gentlemen,  an  honest 
man  who  feared  God  and  lived  righteously 
all  his  days!  What  am  I  offered  for  this 
durable  antique,  this  characteristic  product 
of  New  England?  Do  I  hear  a  bid?" 

At  this  I  felt  coming  over  me  that  strange 
urge  of  the  auction,  to  bid  and  to  buy.  A 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES        151 

rare  possession  indeed,  not  without  a  high, 
stern  kind  of  beauty!  It  would  be  won 
derful  to  possess  such  a  faith;  but  what  had  I 
to  offer  that  Shadowy  Auctioneer?  What 
coin  that  would  redeem  past  times  and  de 
parted  beliefs? 

It  was  curious  how  the  words  of  Mr.  Harp- 
worth  fitted  into  the  fabric  of  my  imaginings. 
When  he  next  attracted  my  attention  he  was 
throwing  up  his  hands  in  a  fine  semblance  of 
despair.  We  were  such  obtuse  purchasers! 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Harpworth,  "that 
this  crowd  came  here  to-day  only  to  eat 
Julia  Templeton's  auction  luncheon.  What's 
the  matter  with  this  here  generation?  You 
don't  want  things  that  are  well  made  and 
durable,  but  only  things  that  are  cheap  and 
flashy.  Put  'er  aside,  Jake.  We'll  sell  'er 
yet  to  some  historical  museum  devoted  to 
the  habits  and  customs  of  the  early  Ameri 
cans." 

He  was  plainly  disgusted  with  us,  and 
we  felt  it  keenly,  and  were  glad  and  pleased 
when,  a  moment  later,  he  gave  evidence  of 
being  willing  to  go  on  with  us,  paltry  as 
we  were. 

"Jake,  pass  up  that  next  treasure/' 


152  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

His  spirits  were  returning;  his  eyes  gleamed 
approvingly  upon  the  newly  presented  antique. 
He  looked  at  us  with  fresh  confidence ;  he  was 
still  hopeful  that  we  would  rise  to  his  former 
good  opinion  of  us. 

"And  now  before  I  sell  the  hall  clock- 
by  Willard,  date  of  1822 — I  am  going  to 
offer  what  is  probably  the  best  single  piece 
in  this  sale.  .  .  ." 

Here  again  the  Old  Auctioneer,  having 
caught  his  cue,  broke  in.  When  he  spoke, 
who  could  listen  to  Mr.  Harpworth  ? 

".  .  .  the  best  single  piece  in  this  sale, 
gentlemen!  I  offer  you  now  the  Templeton 
family  pride!  A  choice  product  of  old  New 
England.  A  little  battered,  but  still  good  and 
sound.  The  Templetons!  They  never  did 
anything  notable  except  to  work,  work  early 
and  late,  summer  and  winter,  for  three  genera 
tions.  They  were  proud  of  any  one  who  bore 
the  Templeton  name;  they  were  proud  even 
of  Jim,  simple  Jim,  who  got  a  job  driving  the 
delivery  wagon  at  the  hill  store,  and  drove  it 
for  twenty-two  years  and  was  drowned  in 
Mill  River  I'll  tell  you  what  family  pride 
meant  to  old  John  Templeton.  .  .  ." 

I  thought  he  leaned  forward  to  take  us 


AN  AUCTION  OF  ANTIQUES       153 

into  his  confidence,  motioning  at  the  same 
time  toward  the  house. 

"You  know  Julia  Templeton 

Know  her  ?  Of  course  we  knew  her !  Knew 
her  as  only  the  country  knows  its  own. 

"When  Julia  ran  away  with  that  sewing- 
machine  agent — it  was  her  only  chance! — 
old  John  Templeton  drove  his  best  cow  into 
town  and  sold  her,  he  mortgaged  his  team  of 
horses,  and  went  after  the  girl  and  brought 
her  home  with  him.  They  were  firm  and 
strong  and  as  righteous  as  God  with  her;  and 
they  paid  off,  without  whining,  the  mortgages 
on  the  horses,  and  never  spoke  of  the  loss  of 
the  cow — but  never  forgot  it.  They  held  up 
their  heads  to  the  end.  Gentlemen,  what  am 
I  offered  for  this  interesting  antique,  this 
rare  work  of  art?" 

The  auction  was  considered,  upon  the  whole, 
a  great  success.  Mr.  Harpworth  himself  said 
so.  Ike,  the  Jewish  dealer,  bought  the  family 
clock  and  the  spring-tooth  harrow,  and  even 
bid  on  the  family  crayon  portraits  (the  frames 
could  be  sold  for  something  or  other) ;  a  Swede 
bought  the  pigs  and  the  old  buggy;  an  Irish 
teamster  bid  in  John  Templeton's  horses,  and 


154  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

a  Pole,  a  good  man,  I  know  him  well,  bought 
the  land,  and  will  no  doubt  keep  his  geese  in 
the  summer  kitchen,  and  get  rich  from  the 
cultivation  of  the  ancient  fields.  While  old 
John  Templeton  bowed  himself  humbly  be 
fore  a  wrathful  God  he  would  never  go  down 
on  his  knees,  as  the  Poles  do,  to  the  fertile 
earth.  And — I  forgot — an  Italian  from  Nor- 
tontown  bought  for  a  song  the  apple  and 
chestnut  crops,  and  busy  third  generation 
Americans  loaded  in  the  antiques  and  drove  off 
with  them  to  the  city. 

The  last  I  saw  of  Julia  Templeton,  that 
hard-favoured  woman,  she  was  standing,  an 
angular  figure,  in  the  midst  of  the  wreck  of 
the  luncheon  dishes,  one  arm  wrapped  in 
her  apron,  the  other  hand  shading  her  eyes 
while  she  watched  the  company,  in  wagons 
and  automobiles,  trailing  away  to  the  west 
ward,  and  the  towns.  .  .  . 

The  sale  was  over;  but  the  most  valuable 
antiques  of  all  found  no  purchasers :  they  were 
left  behind  with  Julia  Templeton:  only  she 
could  use  them. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE 

WE  HAVE  an  Astonishing  Woman  in 
this  community.  She  acts  in  a  way 
that  no  one  expects,  and  while  we  are  intensely 
interested  in  everything  she  does,  and  desire 
to  know  about  it  to  the  uttermost  detail,  we 
are  inclined  to  speak  of  her  in  bated  breath. 

Some  Woman  to  Talk  About  in  a  country 
neighbourhood  is  a  kind  of  public  necessity. 
She  fills  one  of  the  stated  functions  like  the 
town  assessor,  or  the  president  of  the  Dorcas 
Society;  and  if  ever  the  office  falls  vacant  we 
have  immediate  resort  to  one  of  those  silent 
elections  at  which  we  choose  our  town  celebri 
ties.  There  are  usually  several  candidates,  and 
the  campaign  is  accompanied  by  much  heated 
argument  and  exemplification.  We  have  our 


GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

staunch  party  men  and  our  irresponsible  in 
dependents  on  whom  you  can  never  put  your 
ringer;  and  if  we  are  sometimes  a  little  vague 
in  our  discussion  of  principles  and  issues  we 
share  with  our  national  political  leaders  an 
intense  interest  in  personalities.  Prominent 
citizens  "come  out"  for  this  candidate  or  that, 
we  "spring  surprises,"  and  launch  new  booms, 
and  often,  at  the  last  moment,  we  are  taken 
off  our  feet  by  the  circulation  of  rohrbacks. 
I  take  a  pardonable  pride,  however,  in  saying, 
to  the  credit  of  our  democratic  institutions, 
that  most  of  the  candidates  elected  are  chosen 
strictly  upon  merit. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  afternoon,  now  more 
than  a  year  ago,  that  Harriet  came  up  the  road 
bearing  the  news  which,  beyond  a  doubt, 
placed  the  present  incumbent  in  office;  and  has 
served  to  keep  her  there,  despite  the  efforts  in 
certain  quarters,  which  shall  be  nameless,  to 
use  that  pernicious  instrument  of  radicalism, 
the  recall. 

I  can  always  tell  when  Harriet  brings  im 
portant  news.  She  has  a  slightly  quicker  step, 
carries  her  head  a  little  more  firmly,  and  when 
she  speaks  impresses  her  message  upon  me 
with  a  lowered  voice.  When  Harriet  looks  at 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        157 

me  severely  and  drops  down  an  octave  I  pre 
pare  for  the  worst. 

"David,"  she  said,  "Mary  Starkweather 
has  gone  to  live  in  the  barn!" 

"In  the  fan*/9' 

"In  the  barn." 

I  don't  know  quite  why  it  is,  but  I  dislike 
being  surprised,  and  do  my  best  to  cover  it  up, 
and,  besides,  I  have  always  liked  Mary  Stark 
weather.  So  I  remarked,  as  casually  as  I 
could : 

"Why  not?    It's  a  perfectly  good  barn." 

"  David  Grayson!" 

"Well,  it  is.  It's  a  better  building  to-day 
than  many  of  the  people  of  this  town  live  in. 
Why  shouldn't  Mary  Starkweather  live  in  the 
barn  if  she  wants  to?  It's  her  barn." 

"But,  David — there  are  her  children — and 
her  husband!" 

"There  always  are,  when  anybody  wants  to 
live  in  a  barn." 

"  I  shall  not  talk  with  you  any  more,"  said 
Harriet,  "until  you  can  be  serious." 

I  had  my  punishment,  as  I  richly  deserved 
to  have,  in  the  gnawing  of  unsatisfied  cur 
iosity,  which  is  almost  as  distressing  as  a 
troubled  conscience. 


158  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

Within  the  next  few  days,  I  remember,  I 
heard  the  great  news  buzzing  everywhere  I 
went.  We  had  conjectured  that  the  barn  was 
being  refitted  for  the  family  of  a  caretaker,  and 
it  was  Mary  Starkweather  herself,  our  sole  de 
pendable  representative  of  the  Rich,  who  was 
moving  in !  Mary  Starkweather,  who  had  her 
house  in  town,  and  her  home  in  the  country, 
and  her  automobiles,  and  her  servants,  and 
her  pictures,  and  her  books,  to  say  nothing 
of  her  husband  and  her  children  and  her 
children's  maid — going  to  live  in  her  barn! 
I  leave  it  to  you  if  there  was  not  a  valid  reason 
for  our  commotion. 

It  must  have  been  two  weeks  later  that  I 
went  to  town  by  the  upper  hill  road  in  order  to 
pass  the  Starkweather  place.  It  is  a  fine  old 
estate,  the  buildings,  except  the  barn,  set  well 
back  from  the  road  with  a  spacious  garden  near 
them,  and  pleasant  fields  stretching  away  on 
every  hand.  As  I  skirted  the  shoulder  of  the 
hill  I  looked  eagerly  for  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
barn.  I  confess  that  I  had  woven  a  thousand 
stories  to  explain  the  mystery,  and  had  reached 
the  point  where  I  could  no  longer  resist  seeing 
if  I  could  solve  it. 

Well,  the  barn  was  transformed.      Two  or 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        159 

three  new  windows,  a  door  with  a  little  porch,  a 
lattice  or  so  for  vines,  a  gable  upon  the  roof 
lifting  an  inquiring  eyebrow — and  what  was 
once  a  barn  had  become  a  charming  cottage. 
It  seemed  curiously  to  have  come  alive,  to 
have  acquired  a  personality  of  its  own.  A 
corner  of  the  great  garden  had  been  cut  off  and 
included  in  the  miniature  grounds  of  the  cot 
tage;  and  a  simple  arbour  had  been  built 
against  a  background  of  wonderful  beech  trees. 
You  felt  at  once  a  kind  of  fondness  for  it. 

I  saw  Mary  Starkweather  in  her  garden,  in  a 
large  straw  hat,  with  a  trowel  in  her  hand. 

"How  are  you,  David  Grayson?"  she  called 
out  when  I  stopped. 

"I  have  been  planning  for  several  days,'*  I 
said,  "  to  happen  casually  by  your  new  house." 

"Have  you?" 

"You  don't  know  how  you  have  stirred 
our  curiosity.  We  haven't  had  a  good  night's 
rest  since  you  moved  in." 

"  I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  she  laughed.  "Won't 
you  come  in  ?  I'd  like  to  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"I  also  prepared  to  make  excuses  for  not 
stopping,"  I  said,  "and  thought  up  various 
kinds  of  urgent  business,  such  as  buying  a  new 
snow  shovel  to  use  next  winter,  but  after 


160  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

making  these  excuses  I  intended  to  stop — if  I 
were  sufficiently  urged." 

"You  are  more  than  urged:  you  are  com 
manded." 

As  I  followed  her  up  the  walk  she  said 
earnestly: 

"Will  you  do  me  a  favour ?  When  you  come 
in  will  you  tell  me  the  first  impression  my 
living-room  gives  you?  No  second  thoughts. 
Tell  me  instantly." 

"I'll  do  it,"  I  said,  my  mind  leaping  eagerly 
to  all  manner  of  mysterious  surmises. 

At  the  centre  of  the  room  she  turned  toward 
me  and  with  a  sweeping  backward  motion  of 
the  arms,  made  me  a  bow — a  strong  figure 
instinct  with  confident  grace :  a  touch  of  gray 
in  the  hair,  a  fleeting  look  of  old  sadness  about 
the  eyes. 

"Now,  David  Grayson,"  she  said,  "quick!" 

It  was  not  that  the  room  itself  was  so  re 
markable  as  that  it  struck  me  as  being  con- 
fusingly  different  from  the  heavily  comfortable 
rooms  of  the  old  Starkweather  house  with 
their  crowded  furnishings,  their  overloaded 
mantels,  their  plethoric  bookcases. 

"I  cannot  think  of  you  yet,"  I  stumbled,  "as 
being  here." 


I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Dick  in  his  old  smoking  jacket- 
smiling  across  at  me 


160  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

making  these  excuses  I  intended  to  stop — if  I 
were  sufficiently  urged.*' 

"You  are  more  than  urged:  you  are  com 
manded/' 

As  I  followed  her  up  the  walk  she  said 
earnestly: 

"Will  you  do  me  a  favour ?  When  you  come 
in  will  you  tell  me  the  first  impression  my 
living-room  gives  you?  No  second  thoughts. 
Tell  me  instantly." 

"I'll  do  it,"  I  said,  my  mind  leaping  eagerly 
to  all  manner  of  mysterious  surmises. 

At  the  centre  of  the  room  she  turned  toward 
me  and  with  a  sweeping  backward  motion  of 
the  arms,  made  me  a  bow — a  strong  figure 
instinct  with  confident  grace:  a  touch  of  gray 
in  the  hair,  a  fleeting  look  of  old  sadness  about 
the  eyes. 

"Now,  David  Grayson,"  she  said,  "quick!" 

It  was  not  that  the  room  itself  was  so  re 
markable  as  that  it  struck  me  as  being  con- 
fusingly  different  from  the  heavily  comfortable 
rooms  of  the  old  Starkweather  house  with 
their  crowded  furnishings,  their  overloaded 
mantels,  their  plethoric  bookcases. 

"I  cannot  think  of  you  yet,"  I  stumbled,  "as 
being  here." 


' 


i  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Dick  in  his  old  smoking  jacket- 
smiling  across  at  me 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        161 

" Isn't  it  like  me?" 

"It  is  a  beautiful  room "  I  groped 

lamely. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  say  that." 

"  But  it  is.     It  really  is." 

"Then  I've  failed,  after  all." 

She  said  it  lightly  enough,  but  there  was  an 
undertone  of  real  disappointment  in  her  voice. 

"I'm  in  rather  the  predicament,"  I  said,  "of 
old  Abner  Coates.  You  probably  don't  know 
Abner.  He  sells  nursery  stock,  and  each  spring 
when  he  comes  around  and  I  tell  him  that  the 
peach  trees  or  the  raspberry  bushes  I  bought  of 
him  the  year  before  have  not  done  well,  he  says, 
with  the  greatest  astonishment,  'Wai,  now,  ye 
ain't  said  what  I  hoped  ye  would.'  I  see  that  I 
haven't  said  what  you  hoped  I  would." 

It  was  too  serious  a  matter,  however,  for 
Mary  Starkweather  to  joke  about. 

"But,  David  Grayson,"  she  said,  "isn't  it 
simple?" 

I  glanced  around  me  with  swift  new  com 
prehension. 

"Why,  yes,  it  is  simple." 

I  saw  that  my  friend  was  undergoing  some 
deep  inner  change  of  which  this  room,  this 
renovated  barn,  were  mere  symbols. 


162  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"Tell  me,"  I  said,  "how  you  came  to  such  a 
right-about-face." 

"It's  just  that!"  she  returned  earnestly. 
"  It  is  a  right-about-face.  I  think  I  am  really 
in  earnest  for  the  first  time  in  my  life." 

I  had  a  moment  of  flashing  wonder  if  her 
marriage  had  not  been  in  earnest,  a  flashing 
picture  of  Richard  Starkweather  with  his 
rather  tired,  good-humoured  face,  and  I  won 
dered  if  her  children  were  not  earnest  realities 
to  her,  if  her  busy  social  life  had  meant  nothing. 
Then  I  reflected  that  we  all  have  such  moments, 
when  the  richest  experiences  of  the  past  seem 
as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  fervour  of 
this  glowing  moment. 

"Everything  in  my  life  in  the  past,"  she 
was  saying,  "seems  to  have  happened  to 
me.  Life  has  done  things  for  me;  I  have 
had  so  few  chances  of  doing  anything  for  my 
self." 

"And  now  you  are  expressing  yourself." 

"Almost  for  the  first  time  in  my  life!" 

She  paused.  "All  my  life,  it  seems  to 
me,  I  have  been  smothered  with  things. 
Just  things!  Too  much  of  everything.  All 
my  time  has  been  taken  up  in  caring  for 
things  and  none  in  enjoying  them." 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        163 

"I  understand!"  I  said  with  a  warm  sense 
of  corroboration  and  sympathy. 

"I  had  so  many  pictures  on  my  walls  that 
I  never  saw,  really  saw,  any  of  them.  I  saw 
the  dust  on  them,  I  saw  the  cracks  in  the  frames 
that  needed  repairing,  I  even  saw  better 
ways  of  arranging  them,  but  I  very  rarely 
saw,  with  the  inner  eye,  what  the  artists  were 
trying  to  tell  me.  And  how  much  time  I  have 
wasted  on  mere  food  and  clothing — it  is  ap 
palling!  I  had  become  nothing  short  of  a 
slave  to  my  house  and  my  things." 

"I  see  now,"  I  said,  "why  you  have  just 
one  rose  on  your  table." 

''Yes" — she  returned  eagerly — "isn't  it  a 
beauty!  I  spent  half  an  hour  this  morning 
looking  for  the  best  and  most  perfect  rose  in 
the  garden,  and  there  it  is!" 

She  was  now  all  alight  with  her  idea,  and  I 
saw  her,  as  we  sometimes  see  our  oldest  friends, 
as  though  I  had  not  seen  her  before.  She 
was  that  phenomenon  of  the  modern  world — 
the  free  woman  of  forty-five. 

When  a  woman  reaches  the  old  age  of  youth, 
the  years  between  forty  and  forty-five,  she 
either  surrenders  or  revolts.  In  the  older 
days  in  America  it  was  nearly  always  sur- 


i64  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

render.  Those  women  of  a  past  generation 
bore  many  children:  how  many  graves  there 
are  in  our  hill  cemeteries  of  women  of  forty 
to  fifty  who  died  leaving  families  of  five  or 
eight  or  ten  children !  How  many  second  and 
third  wives  there  were,  often  with  second  and 
third  families.  Or  if  they  did  not  die,  how 
terribly  they  toiled,  keeping  the  house,  cloth 
ing  the  children,  cooking  the  food.  Or  if 
they  bore  no  children,  yet  they  were  bound 
down  by  a  thousand  chains  of  convention 
and  formality. 

But  in  these  days  we  have  a  woman  of 
forty-five  who  has  not  surrendered.  She  is  a 
vigorous,  experienced,  'active-minded  human 
being,  just  beginning  to  look  restlessly  around 
her  and  take  a  new  interest  in  the  world. 
Such  a  woman  was  Mary  Starkweather;  and 
this  was  her  first  revolt. 

"You  cannot  imagine,"  she  was  saying, 
"what  a  joy  it  has  been  to  unaccumulate! 
To  get  rid  of  things!  To  select." 

"To  become  an  artist  in  life!" 

"Yes!  At  last!  What  a  lot  of  perfectly 
worthless  trash  accumulates  around  us.  Not 
beautiful,  not  even  useful !  And  it  is  not  only 
the  lives  of  the  well-to-do  that  are  choked 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        165 

and  cluttered  with  things.  I  wish  you  could 
see  the  house  of  our  Polish  farmer.  He's 
been  saving  money,  and  filling  up  his  house 
with  perfectly  worthless  ornaments — ornate 
clocks,  gorgeous  plush  furniture,  impossible 
rugs — and  yet  he  is  only  doing  what  we  are 
all  doing  on  a  more  elaborate  scale." 

I  laughed. 

"That  reminds  me  of  a  family  of  squirrels 
that  lives  in  an  oak  tree  on  my  hill,"  I  said. 
"I  am  never  tired  of  watching  them.  In  the 
fall  they  work  desperately,  stealing  all  the 
hickory  nuts  and  chestnuts  on  my  neighbour 
Horace's  back  pastures,  five  times  as  many  as 
they  need,  and  then  they  forget,  half  the  time, 
where  they've  hidden  them.  We're  all  more 
or  less  in  the  squirrel  stage  of  civilization." 

"Yes,"  she  responded.  "There  are  my 
books!  I  gathered  up  books  for  years,  just 
squirrel  fashion,  until  I  forgot  what  I  had 
or  where  I  put  them.  You  cannot  know 
what  joy  I'm  going  to  have  in  selecting  just 
the  essential  books,  the  ones  I  want  by  me  for 
daily  companions.  All  the  others,  I  see  now, 
are  temporary  rubbish." 

"And  you've  made  your  selections?" 

"No,  but  I'm  making  them.     You'll  laugh 


166  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

when  you  come  next  time  and  I  show  them  to 
you.  Oh,  I  am  going  to  be  stern  with  myself. 
I'm  not  going  to  put  a  single  book  in  that 
case  for  show,  nor  a  single  one  to  give  the  im 
pression  that  I'm  profoundly  interested  in 
Egypt  or  Maeterlinck  or  woman  suffrage,  when 
I'm  positively  not." 

"It's  terribly  risky,"  I  said. 

"And  I'm  terribly  reckless,"  she  responded. 

As  I  went  onward  toward  the  town  I 
looked  back  from  the  hilltop  beyond  the  big 
house  for  a  last  glimpse  of  the  reconstructed 
barn,  and  with  a  curious  warm  sense  of  having 
been  admitted  to  a  new  adventure.  Here  was 
life  changing  under  my  eyes!  Here  was  a 
human  being  struggling  with  one  of  the  deep 
common  problems  that  come  to  all  of  us. 
The  revolt  from  things!  The  struggle  with 
superfluities! 

And  yet  as  I  walked  along  the  cool  aisles 
of  the  woods  with  the  quiet  fields  opening 
here  and  there  to  the  low  hill  ridges,  and  saw 
the  cattle  feeding,  and  heard  a  thrush  singing 
in  a  thicket,  I  found  myself  letting  go — how 
can  I  explain  it  ? — relaxing!  I  had  been  keyed 
up  to  a  high  pitch  there  in  that  extraordinary 
room.  Yes,  it  was  beautiful — and  yet  as  I 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        167 

thought  of  the  sharp  little  green  gate,  the 
new  gable,  the  hard,  clean  mantel  with  the 
cloisonne  vase,  it  wanted  something.  .  .  . 

As  I  was  gathering  the  rowen  crop  of  after- 
enjoyment  which  rewards  us  when  we  reflect 
freshly  upon  our  adventures,  whom  should  I 
meet  but  Richard  Starkweather  himself  in  his 
battered  machine.  The  two  boys,  one  of 
whom  was  driving,  and  the  little  girl,  were 
with  him. 

"How  are  you,  David?'1  he  called  out. 
"Whoa,  there!  Draw  up,  Jamie." 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment 
with  that  quizzical,  half-humorous  look  that 
so  often  conveys,  better  than  any  spoken 
words,  the  sympathetic  greeting  of  friends.  I 
like  Richard  Starkweather. 

He  had  come  up  from  the  city  looking  rather 
worn,  for  the  weather  had  been  trying.  He 
has  blue,  honest,  direct-gazing  eyes  with 
small  humour  wrinkles  at  the  corners.  I  never 
knew  a  man  with  fewer  theories,  or  with  a 
simpler  devotion  to  the  thing  at  hand,  what 
ever  it  may  be.  At  everything  else  he  smiles, 
not  cynically,  for  he  is  too  modest  in  his  regard 
for  his  own  knowledge;  he  smiles  at  everything 
else  because  it  doesn't  seem  quite  real  to  him. 


i68  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"Been  up  to  see  Mary's  new  house?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes."  And  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't 
help  smiling  in  response. 

"It's  a  wonder — isn't  it?' 

He  thought  his  wife  a  very  extraordinary 
woman.  I  remember  his  saying  to  me  once, 
"David,  she's  got  the  soul  of  a  poet  and  the 
brain  of  a  general." 

"It  is  a  wonder,"  I  responded. 

"I  can't  decide  yet  what  chair  to  sit  in,  nor 
just  what  she  wants  the  kids  to  do." 

I  still  smiled. 

"I  expect  she  hasn't  determined  yet,"  he 
went  drawling  on,  "in  what  chair  I  will  look 
most  decorative." 

He  ruminated. 

"You  know,  she's  got  the  idea  that  there's 
too  much  of  everything — guess  there  is,  too 
— and  that  she  ought  to  select  only  those 
things  that  are  essential.  I've  been  wonder 
ing,  if  she  had  more  than  one  husband  whether 
or  not  she'd  select  me " 

The  restless  young  Jamie  was  now  starting 
the  machine,  and  Richard  Starkweather  leaned 
out  and  said  to  me  in  parting: 

"Isn't  she  a  wonder!     Did  all  the  planning 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        169 

herself — wouldn't  have  an  architect — wouldn't 
have  a  decorator — all  I  could  do- 
As  he  turned  around  I  saw  him  throw  one 
arm  carelessly  about  theshoulders  of  the  sturdy 
younger  boy  who  sat  next  him. 

When  I  got  home  I  told  Harriet  all  about 
what  I  had  seen  and  heard.  I  think  I  must 
feel  when  I  am  retailing  such  fascinating 
neighbourhood  events  to  Harriet — how  she 
does  enjoy  them! — I  must  feel  very  much  as 
she  does  when  she  is  urging  me  to  have  just  a 
little  more  of  the  new  gingerbread. 

In  the  next  few  months  I  watched  with  in 
describable  interest  the  unfolding  of  the  drama 
of  Mary  Starkweather.  I  saw  her  from  time 
to  time  that  summer  and  she  seemed,  and  I 
think  she  was,  happier  than  ever  she  had  been 
before  in  her  whole  life.  Making  over  her 
garden,  selecting  the  "essential  books,"  choos 
ing  the  best  pictures  for  her  rooms,  even  re 
forming  the  clothing  of  the  boys,  all  with 
an  emphasis  upon  perfect  simplicity — her  mind 
was  completely  absorbed.  Occasionally  Rich 
ard  appeared  upon  the  stage,  a  kind  of  ab 
surd  Greek  chorus  of  one,  who  remarked  what 
a  wonderful  woman  this  was  and  poked  fun 
at  himself  and  at  the  new  house,  and  asserted 


170  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

that  Mary  could  be  as  simple  as  ever  she  liked, 
he  insisted  on  thick  soup  for  dinner  and  would 
not  sacrifice  his  beloved  old  smoking  jacket 
upon  the  altar  of  any  new  idea. 

"She's  a  wonder,  David/*  he'd  wind  up; 
"but  this  simple  life  is  getting  more  com 
plicated  every  day." 

It  was  in  December,  about  the  middle  of  the 
month,  as  I  remember,  that  I  had  a  note  one 
day  from  Mary  Starkweather. 

"The  next  time  you  go  to  town,"  it  ran, 
"stop  in  and  see  me.  I've  made  a  discovery." 

With  such  a  note  as  that  in  my  hand  it 
appeared  imperative  that  I  go  to  town  at 
once.  I  discovered,  to  Harriet's  astonish 
ment,  that  we  were  running  out  of  all  sorts 
of  necessaries. 

"Now,  David,"  she  said,  "you  know  per 
fectly  well  that  you're  just  making  up  to  call 
on  Mary  Starkweather." 

"That,"  I  said,  "relieves  my  conscience  of  a 
great  burden." 

As  I  went  out  of  the  door  I  heard  her  say 
ing:  "Why  Mary  Starkweather  should  care 
to  live  in  her  barn.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  sparkling  cold  day,  sun  on  the  snow 
and  the  track  crunching  under  one's  feet,  and 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        171 

I  walked  swiftly  and  with  a  warm  sense  of 
coming  adventure. 

To  my  surprise  there  was  no  smoke  in  the 
cottage  chimney,  and  when  I  reached  the  door 
I  found  a  card  pinned  upon  it: 

PLEASE  CALL  AT  THE  HOUSE 

Mary  Starkweather  herself  opened  the  door 
—she  had  seen  me  coming — and  took  me  into 
the  big  comfortable  old  living-room,  the  big, 
cluttered,  overfurnished  living-room,  with 
the  two  worn  upholstered  chairs  at  the  fire 
place,  in  which  a  bright  log  fire  was  now  burn 
ing.  There  was  a  pleasant  litter  of  books  and 
magazines,  and  a  work  basket  on  the  table, 
and  in  the  bay  window  an  ugly  but  cheerful 
green  rubber  plant  in  a  tub. 

"Well!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Don't  smile— not  yet." 

As  I  looked  at  her  I  felt  not  at  all  like 
smiling. 

"I  know,"  she  was  saying,  "it  does  have 
a  humorous  side.  I  can  see  that.  Dick  has 
seen  it  all  along.  Do  you  know,  although 
Dick  pretends  to  pooh-pooh  everything  in-, 
tellectual,  he  has  a  really  penetrating  mind." 

I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  Dick  in  his  old 


172  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

smoking  jacket,  standing  in  the  midst  of 
the  immaculate  cottage  that  was  once  a 
barn,  holding  his  pipe  with  one  finger  crooked 
around  the  stem  just  in  front  of  his  nose  in 
the  way  he  had,  and  smiling  across  at  me. 

"Have  you  deserted  the  cottage  entirely?" 

"Oh,  we  may  possibly  go  back  in  the 

spring '  She  paused  and  looked  into  the 

fire,  her  fine,  strong  face  a  little  sad  in  com 
posure,  full  of  thought. 

"I  am  trying  to  be  honest  with  myself, 
David.  Honest  above  everything  else.  That's 
fundamental.  It  seems  to  me  I  have  wanted 
most  of  all  to  learn  how  to  live  my  life  more 
freely  and  finely.  ...  I  thought  I  was 
getting  myself  free  of  things  when,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  was  devoting  more  time  to  them 
than  ever  before — and,  besides  that,  making 
life  more  or  less  uncomfortable  for  Dick  and  the 
children.  So  I've  taken  my  courage  squarely 
in  my  hands  and  come  back  here  into  this 
blessed  old  home,  this  blessed,  ugly,  stuffy  old 
home — I've  learned  that  lesson." 

At  this,  she  glanced  up  at  me  with  that 
rare  smile  which  sometimes  shines  out  of  her 
very  nature:  the  smile  that  is  herself. 

"I   found,"   she   said,   "that  when  I   had 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        173 

finished  the  work  of  becoming  simple — there 
was  nothing  else  left  to  do." 

I  laughed  outright,  for  I  couldn't  help  it, 
and  she  joined  me.  How  we  do  like  people 
who  can  laugh  at  themselves. 

"But,"  I  said,  "there  was  sound  sense  in  a 
great  deal  that  you  were  trying  to  do." 

:'The  fireplace  smoked;  and  the  kitchen 
sink  froze  up;  and  the  cook  left  because  we 
couldn't  keep  her  room  warm." 

"But  you  were  right,"  I  interrupted,  "and 
I  am  not  going  to  be  put  off  by  smoking  fire 
places  or  chilly  cooks;  you  were  right.  We 
do  have  too  much,  we  are  smothered  in  things, 
we  don't  enjoy  what  we  do  have— 

I  paused. 

"And  you  were  making  a  beautiful  thing,  a 
beautiful  house." 

"The  trouble  with  making  a  beautiful 
thing,"  she  replied,  "is  that  when  you  have 
got  it  done  you  must  straightway  make  an 
other.  Now  I  don't  want  to  keep  on  building 
houses  or  furnishing  rooms.  I  am  not  after 
beauty — I  mean  primarily — what  I  want  is  to 
live,  live  simply,  live  greatly." 

She  was  desperately  in  earnest. 

"Perhaps,"  I  said,  feeling  as  though  I  were 


174  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

treading  on  dangerous  ground,  "you  were 
trying  to  be  simple  for  the  sake  of  being  simple. 
I  wonder  if  true  simplicity  is  ever  anything 
but  a  by-product.  If  we  aim  directly  for  it, 
it  eludes  us;  but  if  we  are  on  fire  with  some 
great  interest  that  absorbs  our  lives  to  the 
uttermost,  we  forget  ourselves  into  simplicity. 
Everything  falls  into  simple  lines  around  us, 
like  a  worn  garment." 

I  had  the  rather  uncomfortable  feeling  on 
the  way  home  that  I  had  been  preachy;  and 
the  moment  you  become  preachy  you  begin 
to  build  up  barriers  between  yourself  and  your 
friends:  but  that's  a  defect  of  character  I've 
never  been  able,  quite,  to  overcome.  I  keep 
thinking  I've  got  the  better  of  it,  but  along  will 
come  a  beautiful  temptation  and  down  I  go— 
and  come  out  as  remorseful  as  I  was  that 
afternoon  on  the  way  home  from  Mary  Stark 
weather's. 

A  week  or  two  later  I  happened  to  meet 
Richard  Starkweather  on  the  street  in  Hemp- 
field.  He  was  on  his  way  home. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we're  in  the  old  house 
again  until  spring,  anyway.  I  haven't  been  so 
comfortable  in  a  year.  And,  say,"  here  he 
looked  at  me  quizzically,  "  Mary  has  joined  the 


A  WOMAN  OF  FORTY-FIVE        175 

new  cemetery  association;  you  know  they're 
trying  to  improve  the  resting  places  of  the  fore 
fathers,  and,  by  George,  if  they  didn't  elect 
her  chairman  at  the  first  meeting.  She's  a 
wonder!'' 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HIS  MAJESTY — BILL  RICHARDS 

WELL,  I  have  just  been  having  an  amus 
ing  and  delightful  adventure — and  have 
come  to  know  a  Great  Common  Person.     His 

176 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS      177 

name  is  Bill  Richards,  and  he  is  one  of  the 
hereditary  monarchs  of  America.  He  belongs 
to  our  ruling  dynasty. 

I  first  saw  Bill  about  two  weeks  ago,  and 
while  I  was  strongly  interested  in  him  I 
had  no  idea,  at  the  time,  that  I  should  ever 
come  to  know  him  well.  It  was  a  fine 
June  day,  and  I  was  riding  on  the  new  trolley 
line  that  crosses  the  hills  to  Hewlett — a  charm 
ing  trip  through  a  charming  country — and 
there  in  the  open  car  just  in  front  of  me  sat 
Bill  himself.  One  huge  bare  forearm  rested 
on  the  back  of  the  seat,  the  rich  red  blood 
showing  through  the  weathered  brown  of  the 
skin.  His  clean  brown  neck  rose  strongly 
from  the  loose  collar  of  his  shirt,  which  covered 
but  could  not  hide  the  powerful  lines  of  his 
shoulders.  He  wore  blue  denim  and  khaki, 
and  a  small  round  felt  hat  tipped  up  jauntily 
at  the  back.  He  had  crisp,  coarse  light  hair, 
rather  thin — not  by  age,  but  by  nature — so 
that  the  ruddy  scalp  could  be  seen  through  it, 
and  strong  jaws  and  large  firm  features,  and  if 
the  beard  was  two  days  old,  his  face  was  so 
brown,  so  full  of  youthful  health,  that  it  gave 
no  ill  impression. 

He  could  not  sit  still  for  the  very  life  that 


178  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

was  in  him.  He  seemed  to  have  some  grand 
secret  with  the  conductor  and  frequently 
looked  around  at  him,  his  eyes  full  of  careless 
laughter,  and  once  or  twice  he  called  out — some 
jocose  remark.  He  helped  the  conductor,  in 
pantomime,  to  pull  the  cord  and  stop  or  start 
the  car,  and  he  watched  with  the  liveliest  in 
terest  each  passenger  getting  on  or  getting  off. 
A  rather  mincing  young  girl  with  a  flaring  red 
ribbon  at  her  throat  was  to  him  the  finest 
comedy  in  the  world,  so  that  he  had  to  wink  a 
telegram  to  the  conductor  about  her.  An  old 
woman  with  a  basket  of  vegetables  who  de 
layed  the  car  was  exquisitely  funny. 

I  set  him  down  as  being  about  twenty-two 
years  old  and  some  kind  of  outdoor  workman, 
not  a  farmer. 

When  he  got  off,  which  was  before  the  car 
stopped,  so  that  he  had  to  jump  and  run  with 
it,  he  gave  a  wild  flourish  with  both  arms, 
grimaced  at  the  conductor,  and  went  off  down 
the  road  whistling  for  all  he  was  worth.  How  I 
enjoyed  the  sight  of  him!  He  was  so  charged 
with  youthful  energy,  so  overflowing  with  the 
joy  of  life,  that  he  could  scarcely  contain  him 
self.  What  a  fine  place  the  world  was  to 
him!  And  what  comical  and  interesting  peo- 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS     179 

pie  it  contained!  I  was  sorry  when  he  got 
off. 

Two  or  three  days  later  I  was  on  my  way  up 
the  town  road  north  of  my  farm  when  I  was 
astonished  and  delighted  to  see  Bill  for  the 
second  time.  He  was  coming  down  the  road 
pulling  a  wire  over  the  crosspiece  of  a  tall 
telephone  pole  (the  company  is  rebuilding  and 
enlarging  its  system  through  our  town).  He 
was  holding  the  wire  close  drawn  over  his 
right  shoulder,  his  strong  hands  gripped  and 
pressed  upon  his  breast.  The  veins  stood  out 
in  his  brown  neck  where  the  burlap  shoulder 
pad  he  wore  was  drawn  aside  by  the  wire. 
He  leaned  forward,  stepping  first  on  his  toe, 
which  he  dug  into  the  earth  and  then,  heavily 
letting  down  his  heel,  he  drew  the  other  foot 
forward  somewhat  stiffly.  The  muscles  stood 
out  in  his  powerful  shoulders  and  thighs.  His 
legs  were  double-strapped  with  climbing  spurs. 
He  was  a  master  lineman. 

As  I  came  alongside  he  turned  a  good- 
humoured  sweaty  face  toward  me. 

"It's  dang  hot,"  said  he. 

"It  is,"  said  I. 

There  is  something  indescribably  fascinating 
about  the  sight  of  a  strong  workman  in  the  full 


180  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

swing  of  his  work,  something — yes,  beautiful ! 
A  hard  pull  of  a  job,  with  a  strong  man  doing  it 
joyfully,  what  could  be  finer  to  see?  And  he 
gave  such  a  jaunty  sense  of  youth  and  easy 
strength ! 

I  watched  him  for  some  time,  curiously  in 
terested,  and  thought  I  should  like  well  to  know 
him,  but  could  not  see  just  how  to  go  about  it. 

The  man  astride  the  cross-arm  who  was 
heaving  the  wire  forward  from  the  spool  on 
the  distant  truck  suddenly  cried  out: 

"  Ease  up  there,  Bill,  she's  caught." 

So  Bill  eased  up  and  drew  his  arm  across  his 
dripping  face. 

"How  many  wires  are  you  putting  up?"  I 
asked,  fencing  for  some  opening. 

"Three,"  said  Bill. 

Before  I  could  get  in  another  stroke  the  man 
on  the  pole  shouted : 

"Let  'er  go,  Bill."  And  Bill  let  'er  go,  and 
buckled  down  again  to  his  job. 

"Gee,  but  it's  hot,"  said  he. 

In  the  country  there  are  not  so  many  people 
passing  our  way  that  we  cannot  be  interested 
in  all  of  them.  That  evening  I  could  not  help 
thinking  about  Bill,  the  lineman,  wondering 
where  he  came  from,  how  he  happened  to  be 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS     181 

what  he  was,  who  and  what  sort  were  the 
friends  he  made,  and  the  nature  of  his  am 
bitions,  if  he  had  any.  Talk  about  going  to  the 
North  Pole!  It  is  not  to  be  compared,  for 
downright  fascination,  with  the  exploration  of 
an  undiscovered  human  being. 

With  that  I  began  to  think  how  I  might  get 
at  Bill,  the  lineman,  and  not  merely  weather 
talk,  or  wages  talk,  or  work  talk,  but  at  Bill 
himself.  He  was  a  character  quite  unusual  in 
our  daily  lives  here  in  the  country.  I  wondered 
what  his  interests  could  be,  surely  not  mine  nor 
Horace's  nor  the  Starkweathers'.  As  soon  as  I 
began  trying  to  visualize  what  his  life  might  be, 
I  warmed  up  to  a  grand  scheme  of  capturing 
him,  if  by  chance  he  was  to  be  found  the  next 
day  upon  the  town  road. 

All  this  may  seem  rather  absurd  in  the  tell 
ing,  but  I  found  it  a  downright,  good  adven 
ture  for  a  quiet  evening,  and  fully  believe  I 
felt  for  the  moment  like  General  Joffre  plan 
ning  to  meet  the  Germans  on  the  Marne. 

"I  have  it!"  I  said  aloud. 

"You  have  what?"  asked  Harriet,  some 
what  startled. 

"The  grandest  piece  of  strategy  ever  de 
vised  in  this  town,"  said  I. 


1 82  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

With  that  I  went  delving  in  a  volume  of  uni 
versal  information  I  keep  near  me,  one  of  those 
knowing  books  that  tells  you  how  tall  the  great 
Pryamid  is  and  why  a  hen  cackles  after  laying 
an  egg,  and  having  found  what  I  wanted  I 
asked  Harriet  if  she  could  find  a  tape  measure 
around  the  place.  She  is  a  wonderful  person 
and  knows  where  everything  is.  When  she 
handed  me  the  tape  measure  she  asked  me 
what  in  the  world  I  was  so  mysterious  about. 

"Harriet,"  I  said,  "I'm  going  on  a  great  ad 
venture.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  to-morrow." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Harriet. 
It  is  this  way  with  the  fancies  of  the  evening 
— they  often  look  flat  and  flabby  and  gray  the 
next  morning.  Quite  impossible !  But  if  I'd 
acted  on  half  the  good  and  grand  schemes  I've 
had  o'  nights  I  might  now  be  quite  a  remark 
able  person. 

I  went  about  my  work  the  next  morning  just 
as  usual.  I  even  avoided  looking  at  the  little 
roll  of  tape  on  the  corner  of  the  mantel  as  I 
went  out.  It  seemed  a  kind  of  badge  of  my 
absurdity.  But  about  the  middle  of  the  fore 
noon,  while  I  was  in  my  garden,  I  heard  a 
tremendous  racket  up  the  road.  Rattle — 
bang,  zip,  toot!  As  I  looked  up  I  saw  the  boss 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS     183 

lineman  and  his  crew  careering  up  the  road  in 
their  truck,  and  the  bold  driver  was  driving 
like  Jehu,  the  son  of  Nimshi.  And  there  were 
ladders  and  poles  clattering  out  behind,  and 
rolls  of  wire  on  upright  spools  rattling  and 
flashing  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  men  of  the 
crew  were  sitting  along  the  sides  of  the  truck 
with  hats  off  and  hair  flying  as  they  came 
bumping  and  bounding  up  the  road.  It  was  a 
brave  thing  to  see  going  by  on  a  spring  morn 
ing! 

As  they  passed,  whom  should  I  see  but 
Bill  himself,  at  the  top  of  the  load,  with  a 
broad  smile  on  his  face.  When  his  eye  fell 
on  me  he  threw  up  one  arm,  and  gave  me 
the  railroad  salute. 

"Hey,  there!"  he  shouted. 

"Hey  there,  yourself,"  I  shouted  in  re 
turn — and  could  not  help  it. 

I  had  a  curious  warm  feeling  of  being  taken 
along  with  that  jolly  crowd  of  workmen,  with 
Bill  on  the  top  of  the  load. 

It  was  this  that  finished  me.  I  hurried 
through  an  early  dinner,  and  taking  the  tape 
measure  off  the  mantel  I  put  it  in  my  pocket 
as  though  it  were  a  revolver  or  a  bomb,  and 
went  off  up  the  road  feeling  as  adventurous 


1 84  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

as  ever  I  felt  in  my  life.  I  never  said  a  word 
to  Harriet  but  disappeared  quietly  around 
the  lilac  bushes.  I  was  going  to  waylay  that 
crew,  and  especially  Bill.  I  hoped  to  catch 
them  at  their  nooning. 

Well,  I  was  lucky.  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
up  the  road,  in  a  little  valley  near  the  far  cor 
ner  of  Horace's  farm,  I  found  the  truck,  and 
Bill  just  getting  out  his  dinner  pail.  It  seems 
they  had  flipped  pennies  and  Bill  had  been 
left  behind  with  the  truck  and  the  tools  while 
the  others  went  down  to  the  mill  pond  in  the 
valley  below. 

"How  are  you?"  said  I. 

"How  are  you?"  said  he. 

I  could  see  that  he  was  rather  cross  over 
having  been  left  behind. 

"Fine  day,"  said  I. 

"You  bet,"  said  he. 

He  got  out  his  pail,  which  was  a  big  one, 
and  seated  himself  on  the  roadside,  a  grassy, 
comfortable  spot  near  the  brook  which  runs 
below  into  the  pond.  There  were  white  birches 
and  hemlocks  on  the  hill,  and  somewhere  in 
the  thicket  I  heard  a  wood  thrush  singing. 

"Did  you  ever  see  John  L.  Sullivan?"  I 
asked. 


I  observed  he  had  no  difficulty  in  taking  care  of  every 
crumb  in  his  "bucket."     It  was  wonderful  to  see 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS     185 

He  glanced  up  at  me  quickly,  but  with  new 
interest. 

"No,  did  you?" 

"Or  Bob  Fitzsimmons?" 

"Nope — but  I  was  mighty  near  it  once. 
I've  seen  'em  both  in  the  movies." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  I,  "that's  interesting.  I 
should  like  to  see  them  myself.  Do  you  know 
what  made  me  speak  of  them?" 

He  had  spread  down  a  newspaper  and  was 
taking  the  luncheon  out  of  his  "bucket,"  as  he 
called  it,  including  a  large  bottle  of  coffee;  but 
he  paused  and  looked  at  me  with  keen  interest. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "when  I  saw  you  dragging 
that  wire  yesterday  I  took  you  to  be  a  pretty 
husky  citizen  yourself." 

He  grinned  and  took  a  big  mouthful  from 
one  of  his  sandwiches.  I  could  see  that  my 
shot  had  gone  home. 

"So  when  I  got  back  last  night,"  I  said, 
"I  looked  up  the  arm  measurements  of  Sulli 
van  and  Fitzsimmons  in  a  book  I  have  and 
got  to  wondering  how  they  compared  with 
mine  and  yours.  They  were  considerably 
larger  than  mine- 
Bill  thought  this  a  fine  joke  and  laughed 
out  in  great  good  humour. 


186  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"But  I  imagine  you'd  not  be  far  behind 
either  of  them/' 

He  looked  at  me  a  little  suspiciously,  as  if 
doubtful  what  I  was  driving  at  or  whether 
or  not  I  was  joking  him.  But  I  was  as  serious 
as  the  face  of  nature;  and  proceeded  at  once 
to  get  out  my  tape  measure. 

"I  get  very  much  interested  in  such  things," 
I  said,  "and  I  had  enough  curiosity  to  want 
to  see  how  big  your  arm  really  was." 

He  smiled  broadly. 

''  You're  a  queer  one,"  said  he. 

But  he  took  another  bite  of  sandwich,  and 
clenching  his  great  fist  drew  up  his  forearm 
until  the  biceps  muscles  looked  like  a  roll  of 
Vienna  bread — except  that  they  had  the  vel 
vety  gleam  of  life.  So  I  measured  first  one 
arm,  then  the  other. 

"  By  George !"  said  I,  "you're  ahead  of  Fitz- 
simmons,  but  not  quite  up  to  Sullivan." 

"Fitz  wasn't  a  heavy  man,"  said  Bill,  "but 
a  dead  game  fighter." 

I  saw  then  that  I  had  him !  So  I  sat  down 
on  the  grass  near  by  and  we  had  great  talk 
about  the  comparative  merits  of  Fitzsimmons 
and  Sullivan  and  Corbett  and  Jack  Johnson,  a 
department  of  knowledge  in  which  he  out- 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS     187 

distanced  me.  He  even  told  me  of  an  exploit 
or  two  of  his  own,  which  showed  that  he  was 
able  to  take  care  of  himself. 

While  we  talked  he  ate  his  luncheon,  and  a 
downright  gargantuan  luncheon  it  was,  backed 
by  an  appetite  which  if  it  were  offered  to  the 
highest  bidder  on  the  New  York  Stock  Ex 
change  would,  I  am  convinced,  bring  at  least 
ten  thousand  dollars  in  cash.  It  even  made 
me  envious. 

There  were  three  huge  corned-beef  sand 
wiches,  three  hard-boiled  eggs,  a  pickle  six 
inches  long  and  fat  to  boot,  four  dough 
nuts  so  big  that  they  resembled  pitching  quoits, 
a  bottle  of  coffee  and  milk,  a  quarter  of  a  pie, 
and,  to  cap  the  climax,  an  immense  raw  onion. 
It  was  worth  a  long  journey  to  see  Bill  eat 
that  onion.  He  took  out  his  clasp  knife,  and 
after  stripping  off  the  papery  outer  shell,  cut 
the  onion  into  thick  dewy  slices.  Then  he 
opened  one  of  the  sandwiches  and  placed  sev 
eral  of  them  on  the  beef,  afterward  sprinkling 
them  with  salt  from  a  small  paper  parcel. 
Having  restored  the  top  slice  of  bread  he  took  a 
moon-shaped  bite  out  of  one  end  of  this  glori 
fied  sandwich. 

"I  like  onions,"  said  he. 


i88  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

When  we  first  sat  down  he  had  offered  to 
share  his  luncheon  with  me  but  I  told  him  I 
had  just  been  to  dinner,  and  I  observed  that 
he  had  no  difficulty  in  taking  care  of  every 
crumb  in  his  "bucket."  It  was  wonderful  to 
see. 

Having  finished  his  luncheon  he  went  down 
to  the  brook  and  got  a  drink,  and  then  sat 
down  comfortably  with  his  back  among  the 
ferns  of  the  roadside,  crossed  his  legs,  and  lit 
his  pipe.  There  was  a  healthy  and  whole 
some  flush  in  his  face,  and  as  he  blew  off  the 
first  cloud  of  smoke  he  drew  a  sigh  of  complete 
comfort  and  looked  around  at  me  with  a  lordly 
air  such  as  few  monarchs,  no  matter  how  well 
fed,  could  have  bettered.  He  had  worked  and 
sweat  for  what  he  got,  and  was  now  taking 
his  ease  in  his  roadside  inn.  I  wonder  some 
times  if  anybody  in  the  world  experiences 
keener  joys  than  unwatched  common  people. 

How  we  talked!  From  pugilists  we  pro 
ceeded  to  telephones,  and  from  that  to  wages, 
hours,  and  strikes,  and  from  that  we  leaped 
easily  to  Alaska  and  gold-mining,  and  touched 
in  passing  upon  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  I  said,  "that  you 
and  I  can  enjoy  some  things  that  were  be- 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS     189 

yond  the  reach  of  the  greatest  kings  of  the 
world." 

"How's  that?  "said  he. 

"Why,  Napoleon  never  saw  a  telephone  nor 
talked  through  one." 

"That's  so!"  he  laughed. 

"And  Caesar  couldn't  have  dreamed  that 
such  a  thing  as  you  are  doing  now  was  a  pos 
sibility — nor  George  Washington,  either." 

"  Say,  that's  so.     I  never  thought  o'  that." 

"Why,"  I  said,  "the  world  is  only  half  as 
big  as  it  was  before  you  fellows  came  along 
stringing  your  wires !  I  can  get  to  town  now 
from  my  farm  in  two  minutes,  when  it  used 
to  take  me  an  hour." 

I  really  believe  I  gave  him  more  of  his 
own  business  than  ever  he  had  before,  for 
he  listened  so  intently  that  his  pipe  went 
out. 

I  found  that  Bill  was  from  Ohio,  and  that 
he  had  been  as  far  south  as  Atlanta  and  as 
far  west  as  Denver.  He  got  his  three  dollars 
and  a  half  a  day,  rain  or  shine,  and  thought  it 
wonderful  pay;  and  besides,  he  was  seein'  the 
country  "free,  gratis,  fer  nothing." 

He  got  his  coat  out  of  the  truck  and  took 
from  the  pocket  a  many-coloured  folder. 


190  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

"Say,  Mister,  have  you  ever  been  to  the 
Northwest?" 

"No/'  said  I. 

"Well,  it's  a  great  country,  and  I'm  goin* 
up  there." 

He  spread  out  the  glittering  folder  and 
placed  his  big  forefinger  on  a  spot  about  the 
size  of  Rhode  Island  somewhere  this  side  of 
the  Rockies. 

"How'llyoudoit?"Iasked. 

"Oh,  a  lineman  can  go  anywhere,"  said  he 
with  a  flourish.  "A  lineman  don't  have  to 
beg  a  job.  Besides,  I  got  eighty  dollars  sewed 
up."  ' 

Talk  about  freedom!  Never  have  I  got 
a  clearer  impression  of  it  than  Bill  gave  me 
that  day.  No  millionaire,  no  potentate,  could 
touch  him. 

The  crew  came  back  all  too  soon  for  me. 
Bill  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  on  his 
boot  heel,  and  put  his  "bucket"  back  in  the 
truck.  Five  minutes  later  he  was  climbing 
a  tall  pole  with  legs  bowed  out,  striking  in  his 
spikes  at  each  step.  From  the  cross-arm,  up 
among  the  hemlock  tops,  he  called  out  to 
me: 

"Good-bye,  pard." 


HIS  MAJESTY— BILL  RICHARDS     191 

"Stop  in,  Bill,  and  see  me  when  you  come 
by  my  place,"  said  I. 

"You  bet/' said  he. 

And  he  did,  the  next  day,  and  I  showed  him 
off  to  Harriet,  who  brought  him  a  plate  of  her 
best  doughnuts  and  asked  him  about  his 
mother. 

Yesterday  I  saw  him  again  careering  by  in 
the  truck.  The  job  was  finished.  He  waved 
his  hand  at  me. 

"I'm  off,"  said  he. 

"Where?"  I  shouted. 

"Canada." 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY 

"Why  risk  with  men  your  hard  won  gold? 
Buy  grain  and  sow — your  Brother  Dust 
Will  pay  you  back  a  hundred  fold — 
The  earth  commits  no  breach  of  trust." 

IT  IS  astonishing  how  many  people  there  are 
in  cities  and  towns  who  have  a  secret  long 
ing  to  get  back  into  quiet  country  places,  to 
own  a  bit  of  the  soil  of  the  earth,  and  to  culti 
vate  it.  To  some  it  appears  as  a  troublesome 
malady  only  in  spring  and  will  be  relieved  by  a 
whirl  or  two  in  country  roads,  by  a  glimpse  of 
the  hills,  or  a  day  by  the  sea;  but  to  others  the 
homesickness  is  deeper  seated  and  will  be 
quieted  by  no  hasty  visits.  These  must  ac 
tually  go  home. 

192 


So  many  truths  spoken  by  the  Master  Poet  come  to  us 
exhaling  the  odours  of  the  open  country.  His  stories 
were  so  often  of  sowers — his  similies  so  often  dealt  with 
the  common  and  familiar  beauty  of  the  fields. 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY     193 

I  have  had,  in  recent  years,  many  letters 
from  friends  asking  about  life  in  the  country, 
but  the  longer  I  remain  here,  the  more  I  know 
about  it,  the  less  able  I  am  to  answer  them — at 
least  briefly.  It  is  as  though  one  should  come 
and  ask:  "Is  love  worth  trying?"  or,  "How 
about  religion?"  For  country  life  is  to  each 
human  being  a  fresh,  strange,  original  ad 
venture.  We  enjoy  it,  or  we  do  not  enjoy  it,  or 
more  probably,  we  do  both.  It  is  packed  and 
crowded  with  the  zest  of  adventure,  or  it  is 
dull  and  miserable.  We  may,  if  we  are  skilled 
enough,  make  our  whole  living  from  the  land, 
or  only  a  part  of  it,  or  we  may  find  in  a  few 
cherished  acres  the  inspiration  and  power  for 
other  work,  whatever  it  may  be.  There  is 
many  a  man  whose  strength  is  renewed  like 
that  of  the  wrestler  of  Irassa,  every  time  his 
feet  touch  the  earth. 

Of  all  places  in  the  world  where  life  can  be 
lived  to  its  fullest  and  freest,  where  it  can  be 
met  in  its  greatest  variety  and  beauty,  I  am 
convinced  that  there  is  none  to  equal  the  open 
country,  or  the  country  town.  For  all  country 
people  in  these  days  may  have  the  city — some 
city  or  town  not  too  far  away:  but  there  are 
millions  of  men  and  women  in  America  who 


194  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

have  no  country  and  no  sense  of  the  country. 
What  do  they  not  lose  out  of  life ! 

I  know  well  the  disadvantages  charged 
against  country  life  at  its  worst.  At  its  worst 
there  are  long  hours  and  much  lonely  labour 
and  an  income  pitifully  small.  Drudgery,  yes, 
especially  for  the  women,  and  loneliness.  But 
where  is  there  not  drudgery  when  men  are 
poor — where  life  is  at  its  worst  ?  I  have  never 
seen  drudgery  in  the  country  comparable  for  a 
moment  to  the  dreary  and  lonely  drudgery  of 
city  tenements,  city  mills,  factories,  and  sweat 
shops.  And  in  recent  years  both  the  drudgery 
and  loneliness  of  country  life  have  been  dis 
appearing  before  the  motor  and  trolley  car,  the 
telephone,  the  rural  post,  the  gasoline  engine. 
I  have  seen  a  machine  plant  as  many  potatoes 
in  one  day  as  a  man,  at  hand  work,  could  have 
planted  in  a  week.  While  there  is,  indeed, 
real  drudgery  in  the  country,  much  that  is 
looked  upon  as  drudgery  by  people  who  long 
for  easy  ways  and  a  soft  life,  is  only  good,  hon 
est,  wholesome  hard  work — the  kind  of  work 
that  makes  for  fiber  in  a  man  or  in  a  nation, 
the  kind  that  most  city  life  in  no  wise  provides. 

There  are  a  thousand  nuisances  and  an 
noyances  that  men  must  meet  who  come 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY     195 

face  to  face  with  nature  itself.  You  have  set 
out  your  upper  acres  to  peach  trees:  and  the 
deer  come  down  from  the  hills  at  night  and 
strip  the  young  foliage;  or  the  field  mice  in 
winter,  working  under  the  snow,  girdle  and 
kill  them.  The  season  brings  too  much  rain 
and  the  potatoes  rot  in  the  ground,  the  crows 
steal  the  corn,  the  bees  swarm  when  no  one  is 
watching,  the  cow  smothers  her  calf,  the  hens' 
eggs  prove  infertile,  and  a  storm  in  a  day 
ravages  a  crop  that  has  been  growing  all  sum 
mer.  A  constant  warfare  with  insects  and 
blights  and  fungi — a  real,  bitter  warfare, 
which  can  cease  neither  summer  nor  winter! 

It  is  something  to  meet,  year  after  year,  the 
quiet  implacability  of  the  land.  While  it  is 
patient,  it  never  waits  long  for  you.  There  is  a 
chosen  time  for  planting,  a  time  for  cultivat 
ing,  a  time  for  harvesting.  You  accept  the 
gauge  thrown  down — well  and  good,  you  shall 
have  a  chance  to  fight !  You  do  not  accept  it  ? 
There  is  no  complaint.  The  land  cheerfully 
springs  up  to  wild  yellow  mustard  and  dande 
lion  and  pig-weed — and  will  be  productive  and 
beautiful  in  spite  of  you. 

Nor  can  you  enter  upon  the  full  satisfaction 
of  cultivating  even  a  small  piece  of  land  at 


196  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

second  hand.      To  be  accepted  as  One  Who 
Belongs,  there  must  be  sweat  and  weariness. 

The  other  day  I  was  digging  with  Dick  in  a 
ditch  that  is  to  run  down  through  the  orchard 
and  connect  finally  with  the  land  drain  we  put 
in  four  years  ago.  We  laid  the  tile  just  in  the 
gravel  below  the  silt,  about  two  feet  deep, 
covering  the  openings  with  tar  paper  and  then 
throwing  in  gravel.  It  was  a  bright,  cool  after 
noon.  In  the  field  below  a  ploughman  was  at 
work:  I  could  see  the  furrows  of  the  dark  earth 
glisten  as  he  turned  it  over.  The  grass  in  the 
meadow  was  a  full  rich  green,  the  new  chickens 
were  active  in  their  yards,  running  to  the 
cluck  of  the  hens,  already  the  leaves  of  the 
orchard  trees  showed  green.  And  as  I  worked 
there  with  Dick  I  had  the  curious  deep  feeling 
of  coming  somehow  into  a  new  and  more  inti 
mate  possession  of  my  own  land.  For  titles  do 
not  really  pass  with  signatures  and  red  seals, 
nor  with  money  changing  from  one  hand  to 
another,  but  for  true  possession  one  must  work 
and  serve  according  to  the  most  ancient  law. 
There  is  no  mitigation  and  no  haggling  of 
price.  Those  who  think  they  can  win  the 
greatest  joys  of  country  life  on  any  easier 
terms  are  mistaken. 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY     197 

But  if  one  has  drained  his  land,  and  ploughed 
it,  and  fertilized  it,  and  planted  it  and  har 
vested  it — even  though  it  be  only  a  few  acres— 
how  he  comes  to  know  and  to  love  every  rod  of 
it.  He  knows  the  wet  spots,  and  the  stony 
spots,  and  the  warmest  and  most  fertile  spots 
— until  his  acres  have  all  the  qualities  of  a 
personality,  whose  every  characteristic  he 
knows.  It  is  so  also  that  he  comes  to  know  his 
horses  and  cattle  and  pigs  and  hens.  It  is  a 
fine  thing,  on  a  warm  day  in  early  spring,  to 
bring  out  the  bee-hives  and  let  the  bees  have 
their  first  flight  in  the  sunshine.  What 
cleanly  folk  they  are!  And  later  to  see  them 
coming  in  yellow  all  over  with  pollen  from  the 
willows !  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  watch  the  cherries 
and  plum  trees  come  into  blossom,  with  us 
about  the  first  of  May,  while  all  the  remainder 
of  the  orchard  seems  still  sleeping.  It  is  a 
fine  thing  to  see  the  cattle  turned  for  the  first 
time  in  spring  into  the  green  meadows.  It  is 
a  fine  thing — one  of  the  finest  of  all — to  see  and 
smell  the  rain  in  a  corn-field  after  weeks  of 
drought.  How  it  comes  softly  out  of  gray 
skies,  the  first  drops  throwing  up  spatters  of 
dust  and  losing  themselves  in  the  dry  soil. 
Then  the  clouds  sweep  forward  up  the  valley, 


i98  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

darkening  the  meadows  and  blotting  out  the 
hills,  and  then  there  is  the  whispering  of  the 
rain  as  it  first  sweeps  across  the  corn-field.  At 
once  what  a  stir  of  life !  What  rustling  of  the 
long  green  leaves.  What  joyful  shaking  and 
swaying  of  the  tassels !  And  have  you  watched 
how  eagerly  the  grooved  leaves  catch  the 
early  drops,  and,  lest  there  be  too  little  rain 
after  all,  conduct  them  jealously  downithe  stalks 
where  they  will  soonest  reach  the  thirsty  roots  ? 
What  a  fine  thing  is  this  to  see ! 

One  who  thus  takes  part  in  the  whole  proc 
ess  of  the  year  comes  soon  to  have  an  in 
describable  affection  for  his  land,  his  garden, 
his  animals.  There  are  thoughts  of  his  in 
every  tree:  memories  in  every  fence  corner. 
Just  now,  the  fourth  of  June,  I  walked  down 
past  my  blackberry  patch,  now  come  gor 
geously  into  full  white  bloom — and  heavy  with 
fragrance.  I  set  out  these  plants  with  my  own 
hands,  I  have  fed  them,  cultivated  them, 
mulched  them,  pruned  them,  trellised  them, 
and  helped  every  year  to  pick  the  berries.  How 
could  they  be  otherwise  than  full  of  associa 
tions  !  They  bear  a  fruit  more  beautiful  than 
can  be  found  in  any  catalogue:  and  stranger 
and  wilder  than  in  any  learned  botany  book ! 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY     199 

Why,  one  who  comes  thus  to  love  a  bit  of 
countryside  may  enjoy  it  all  the  year  round. 
When  he  awakens  in  the  middle  of  a  long 
winter  night  he  may  send  his  mind  out  to  the 
snowy  fields — I've  done  it  a  thousand  times ! — 
and  visit  each  part  in  turn,  stroll  through  the 
orchard  and  pay  his  respects  to  each  tree — in  a 
small  orchard  one  comes  to  know  familiarly 
every  tree  as  he  knows  his  friends — stop  at  the 
strawberry  bed,  consider  the  grape  trellises, 
feel  himself  opening  the  door  of  the  warm,  dark 
stable  and  listening  to  the  welcoming  whicker 
of  his  horses,  or  visiting  his  cows,  his  pigs,  his 
sheep,  his  hens,  or  so  many  of  them  as  he  may 
have. 

So  much  of  the  best  in  the  world  seems  to 
have  come  fragrant  out  of  fields,  gardens,  and 
hillsides.  So  many  truths  spoken  by  the 
Master  Poet  come  to  us  exhaling  the  odours 
of  the  open  country.  His  stories  were  so  often 
of  sowers,  husbandmen,  herdsmen:  his  similes 
and  illustrations  so  often  dealt  with  the  com 
mon  and  familiar  beauty  of  the  fields.  "Con 
sider  the  lilies  how  they  grow."  It  was  on  a 
hillside  that  he  preached  his  greatest  sermon, 
and  when  in  the  last  agony  he  sought  a  place 
to  meet  his  God,  where  did  he  go  but  to  a 


200  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

garden?  A  carpenter  you  say?  Yes,  but  of 
this  one  may  be  sure:  there  were  gardens  and 
fields  all  about:  he  knew  gardens,  and  cattle, 
and  the  simple  processes  of  the  land :  he  must 
have  worked  in  a  garden  and  loved  it  well. 

A  country  life  rather  spoils  one  for  the  so- 
called  luxuries.  A  farmer  or  gardener  may  in 
deed  have  a  small  cash  income,  but  at  least  he 
eats  at  the  first  table.  He  may  have  the  sweet 
est  of  the  milk — there  are  thousands,  perhaps 
millions,  of  men  and  women  in  America  who 
have  never  in  their  lives  tasted  really  sweet 
milk — and  the  freshest  of  eggs,  and  the  ripest 
of  fruit.  One  does  not  know  how  good  straw 
berries  or  raspberries  are  when  picked  before 
breakfast  and  eaten  with  the  dew  still  on  them. 
And  while  he  must  work  and  sweat  for  what 
he  gets,  he  may  have  all  these  things  in  almost 
unmeasured  abundance,  and  without  a  thought 
of  what  they  cost.  A  man  from  the  country  is 
often  made  uncomfortable,  upon  visiting  the 
city,  to  find  two  ears  of  sweet  corn  served 
for  twenty  or  thirty  cents,  or  a  dish  of  rasp 
berries  at  twenty-five  or  forty — and  neither, 
even  at  their  best,  equal  in  quality  to  those 
he  may  have  fresh  from  the  garden  every  day. 
One  need  say  this  in  no  boastful  spirit,  but  as  a 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY     201 

simple  statement  of  the  fact:  for  fruits  sent 
to  the  city  are  nearly  always  picked  before 
they  are  fully  ripe — and  lose  that  last  per 
fection  of  flavour  which  the  sun  and  the  open 
air  impart:  and  both  fruits  and  vegetables,  as 
well  as  milk  and  eggs,  suffer  more  than  most 
people  think  from  handling  and  shipment. 
These  things  can  be  set  down  as  one  of  the 
make-weights  against  the  familiar  presenta 
tion  of  the  farmer's  life  as  a  hard  one. 

One  of  the  greatest  curses  of  mill  or  factory 
work  and  with  much  city  work  of  all  kinds,  is  its 
interminable  monotony:  the  same  process  re 
peated  hour  after  hour  and  day  after  day.  In 
the  country  there  is  indeed  monotonous  work 
but  rarely  monotony.  No  task  continues  very 
long:  everything  changes  infinitely  with  the 
seasons.  Processes  are  not  repetitive  but  crea 
tive.  Nature  hates  monotony,  is  ever  chang 
ing  and  restless,  brings  up  a  storm  to  drive 
the  haymakers  from  their  hurried  work  in  the 
fields,  sends  rain  to  stop  the  ploughing,  or  a 
frost  to  hurry  the  apple  harvest.  Everything 
is  full  of  adventure  and  vicissitude!  A  man 
who  has  been  a  farmer  for  two  hours  at  the 
mowing  must  suddenly  turn  blacksmith  when 
his  machine  breaks  down  and  tinker  with 


202  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

wrench  and  hammer;  and  later  in  the  day  he 
becomes  dairyman,  farrier,  harness-maker, 
merchant.  No  kind  of  wheat  but  is  grist  to 
his  mill,  no  knowledge  that  he  cannot  use! 
And  who  is  freer  to  be  a  citizen  than  he:  freer 
to  take  his  part  in  town  meeting  and  serve  his 
state  in  some  one  of  the  innumerable  small 
offices  which  form  the  solid  blocks  of  organi 
zation  beneath  our  commonwealth. 

I  thought  last  fall  that  corn-husking  came 
as  near  being  monotonous  work  as  any  I  had 
ever  done  in  the  country.  I  presume  in  the 
great  corn-fields  of  the  West,  where  the  husk 
ing  goes  on  for  weeks  at  a  time,  it  probably 
does  grow  really  monotonous.  But  I  soon 
found  that  there  was  a  curious  counter-reward 
attending  even  a  process  as  repetitive  as 
this. 

I  remember  one  afternoon  in  particular. 
It  was  brisk  and  cool  with  ragged  clouds  like 
flung  pennants  in  a  poverty-stricken  sky,  and 
the  hills  were  a  hazy  brown,  rather  sad  to  see, 
and  in  one  of  the  apple  trees  at  the  edge  of  the 
meadow  the  crows  were  holding  their  mourn 
ful  autumn  parliament. 

At  such  work  as  this  one's  mind  often  drops 
asleep,  or  at  least  goes  dreaming,  except  for 


203 

the  narrow  margin  of  awareness  required  for 
the  simple  processes  of  the  hands.  Its  orders 
have  indeed  been  given:  you  must  kneel  here, 
pull  aside  the  stalks  one  by  one,  rip  down  the 
husks,  and  twist  off  the  ear — and  there  is  the 
pile  for  the  stripped  stalks,  and  here  the  basket 
for  the  gathered  corn,  and  these  processes  in 
finitely  repeated. 

While  all  this  is  going  on,  the  mind  itself 
wanders  off  to  its  own  far  sweet  pastures,  upon 
its  own  dear  adventures — or  rests,  or  plays.  It 
is  in  these  times  that  most  of  the  airy  flying 
things  of  this  beautiful  world  come  home  to  us 
—things  that  heavy-footed  reason  never  quite 
overtakes,  nor  stodgy  knowledge  ever  knows. 
I  think  sometimes  (as  Sterne  says)  we  thus  in 
tercept  thoughts  never  intended  for  us  at  all,  or 
uncover  strange  primitive  memories  of  older 
times  than  these — racial  memories. 

At  any  rate,  the  hours  pass  and  suddenly  the 
mind  comes  home  again,  it  comes  home  from 
its  wanderings  refreshed,  stimulated,  happy. 
And  nowhere,  whether  in  cities,  or  travelling 
in  trains,  or  sailing  upon  the  sea,  have  I  so  often 
felt  this  curious  enrichment  as  I  have  upon 
this  hillside,  working  alone  in  field,  or  gar 
den,  or  orchard.  It  seems  to  come  up  out  of 


204  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

the  soil,  or  respond  to  the  touch  of  growing 
things. 

What  makes  any  work  interesting  is  the  fact 
that  one  can  make  experiments,  try  new 
things,  develop  specialties  and  grow.  And 
where  can  he  do  this  with  such  success  as  on 
the  land — and  in  direct  contact  with  nature. 
The  possibilities  are  here  infinite — new  ma 
chinery,  spraying,  seed  testing,  fertilizers,  ex 
perimentation  with  new  varieties — a  thousand 
and  one  methods,  all  creative,  which  may  be 
tried  out  in  that  great  essential  struggle  of  the 
farmer  or  gardener  to  command  all  the  forces 
of  nature. 

Because  there  are  farmers,  and  many  of 
them,  who  do  not  experiment  and  do  not 
grow,  but  make  their  occupation  a  veritable 
black  drudgery,  this  is  no  reason  for  painting  a 
sombre-hued  picture  of  country  life.  Any  call 
ing,  the  law,  the  ministry,  the  medical  pro 
fession,  can  be  blasted  by  fixing  one's  eyes 
only  upon  its  ugliest  aspects.  And  farming,  at 
its  best,  has  become  a  highly  scientific,  ex 
traordinarily  absorbing,  and  when  all  is  said,  a 
profitable,  profession.  Neighbours  of  mine 
have  developed  systems  of  overhead  irrigation 
to  make  rain  when  there  is  no  rain,  and  have 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY     205 

covered  whole  fields  with  cloth  canopies  to  in 
crease  the  warmth  and  to  protect  the  crops 
from  wind  and  hail,  and  by  the  analysis  of  the 
soil  and  exact  methods  of  feeding  it  with  fer 
tilizers,  have  come  as  near  a  complete  com 
mand  of  nature  as  any  farmers  in  the  world. 
What  independent,  resourceful  men  they  are ! 
And  many  of  them  have  also  grown  rich 
in  money.  It  is  not  what  nature  does  with  a 
man  that  matters  but  what  he  does  with 
nature. 

Nor  is  it  necessary  in  these  days  for  the 
farmer  or  the  country  dweller  to  be  unculti 
vated  or  uninterested  in  what  are  often  called, 
with  no  very  clear  definition,  the  "finer  things 
of  life."  Many  educated  men  are  now  on  the 
farms  and  have  their  books  and  magazines, 
and  their  music  and  lectures  and  dramas  not 
too  far  off  in  the  towns.  A  great  change  in 
this  respect  has  come  over  American  country 
life  in  twenty  years.  The  real  hardships  of 
pioneering  have  passed  away,  and  with  good 
roads  and  machinery,  and  telephones,  and 
newspapers  every  day  by  rural  post,  the  farmer 
may  maintain  as  close  a  touch  with  the  best 
things  the  world  has  to  offer  as  any  man.  And 
if  he  really  have  such  broader  interests  the 


206  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

winter  furnishes  him  time  and  leisure  that  no 
other  class  of  people  can  command. 

I  do  not  know,  truly,  what  we  are  here  for 
upon  this  wonderful  and  beautiful  earth,  this 
incalculably  interesting  earth,  unless  it  is  to 
crowd  into  a  few  short  years — when  all  is  said, 
terribly  short  years! — every  possible  fine  ex 
perience  and  adventure :  unless  it  is  to  live  our 
lives  to  the  uttermost:  unless  it  is  to  seize 
upon  every  fresh  impression,  develop  every 
latent  capacity:  to  grow  as  much  as  ever  we 
have  it  in  our  power  to  grow.  What  else  can 
there  be  ?  If  there  is  no  life  beyond  this  one, 
we  have  lived  here  to  the  uttermost.  We've 
had  what  we've  had !  But  if  there  is  more  life, 
and  still  more  life,  beyond  this  one,  and  above 
and  under  this  one,  and  around  and  through 
this  one,  we  shall  be  well  prepared  for  that, 
whatever  it  may  be. 

The  real  advantages  of  country  life  have 
come  to  be  a  strong  lure  to  many  people  in 
towns  and  cities:  but  no  one  should  attempt 
to  "go  back  to  the  land"  with  the  idea  that  it 
is  an  easy  way  to  escape  the  real  problems  and 
difficulties  of  life.  The  fact  is,  there  is  no 
escape.  The  problems  and  the  difficulties  must 
be  boldly  met  whether  in  city  or  country. 


ON  LIVING  IN  THE  COUNTRY       207 

Farming  in  these  days  is  not  "easy  living,'*  but 
a  highly  skilled  profession,  requiring  much 
knowledge,  and  actual  manual  labour  and 
plenty  of  it.  So  many  come  to  the  country  too 
light-heartedly,  buy  too  much  land,  attempt 
unfamiliar  crops,  expect  to  hire  the  work  done 
—and  soon  find  themselves  facing  discourage 
ment  and  failure.  Any  city  man  who  would 
venture  on  this  new  way  of  life  should  try  it 
first  for  a  year  or  so  before  he  commits  himself 
—try  himself  out  against  the  actual  problems. 
Or,  by  moving  to  the  country,  still  within 
reach  of  his  accustomed  work,  he  can  have  a 
garden  or  even  a  small  farm  to  experiment 
with.  The  shorter  work-day  has  made  this 
possible  for  a  multitude  of  wage-workers,  and 
I  know  many  instances  in  which  life  because  of 
this  opportunity  to  get  to  the  oil  has  become  a 
very  different  and  much  finer  thing  for  them. 

It  is  easy  also  for  many  men  who  are  en 
gaged  in  professional  work  to  live  where  they 
can  get  their  hands  into  the  soil  for  part  of  the 
time  at  least:  and  this  may  be  made  as  real  an 
experience  as  far  as  it  goes  as  though  they 
owned  wider  acres  and  devoted  their  whole 
time  to  the  work. 

A  man  who  thus  faces  the  problem  squarely 


208  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 

will  soon  see  whether  country  life  is  the  thing 
for  him;  if  he  finds  it  truly  so,  he  can  be  as 
nearly  assured  of  "living  happily  ever  after" 
as  any  one  outside  of  a  story-book  can  ever  be. 
Out  of  it  all  is  likely  to  come  some  of  the  great 
est  rewards  that  men  can  know,  a  robust 
body,  a  healthy  appetite,  a  serene  and  cheer 
ful  spirit! 

And  finally  there  is  one  advantage  not  so 
easy  to  express.  Long  ago  I  read  a  story  of 
Tolstoi's  called  "  The  Candle  "  how  a  peasant 
Russian  forced  to  plough  on  Easter  Day 
lighted  a  candle  to  his  Lord  and  kept  it  burning 
on  his  plough  as  he  worked  through  the  sacred 
day.  When  I  see  a  man  ploughing  in  his  fields 
I  often  think  of  Tolstoi's  peasant,  and  wonder 
if  this  is  not  as  true  a  way  as  any  of  worship 
ping  God.  I  wonder  if  any  one  truly  worships 
God  who  sets  about  it  with  deliberation,  or 
knows  quite  why  he  does  it. 

"My  doctrine  shall  drop  as  the  rain,  my 
speech  shall  distil  as  the  dew,  as  the  small  rain 
upon  the  tender  herb,  and  as  showers  upon  the 
grass." 

THE  END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


3  1158008052168 


